You’re standing in front of me, your clothes are soaked through and stick to your body.
It has been days; months; years; but here you are, standing in front of me.
“You were right,” you say, with short, sharp breaths.
“I made a mistake. I couldn’t do it. You were right. I’m sorry.”
And my thoughts race. I want to tell you the truth; that you are as beautiful as the day that I lost you.
But I can’t.
“You were too late.”
The door closes. I fall.
I am lost.