YOU NEVER CAME

I waited for you with roses, poems, and an aching heart, a trifecta of romantic desperation I hoped would finally crack the wall you so carefully erected between us. The park clock tower chimed six, then six-fifteen. The sun, which had been so optimistic earlier, began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of melancholy. Each passing minute felt like a tiny hammer blow to my hope. I re-read the last text you sent: “Ford Woods Park, 6 pm.” Simple, direct, promising.

Six-thirty arrived, accompanied by a chilling breeze that rustled the leaves and whispered doubts in my ear. Maybe you got held up. Maybe the traffic was terrible. Maybe you changed your mind. I pushed the thought away, a futile attempt to dam the rising tide of disappointment. At 6:45, the warmth in my chest had completely dissipated, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. I was alone, surrounded by wilting roses and unspoken verses. The truth, stark and unforgiving, settled upon me like a shroud. You did not come. The weight of the rejection was physical. I felt it in my shoulders, in the tightness of my jaw, in the leaden feeling in my feet.

I waited until the tears ran dry, until the cold settled deep in my bones, not the bite of winter wind, but the icy grip of a truth left unspoken. The silence, once deafening, now became a familiar companion, a constant presence that mirrored the gaping hole where your promise used to hang. I waited with a quiet desperation that gnawed at the edges of my soul, slowly erasing the memory of your laughter and the touch of your hand, until the hope I clung to withered and died, a forgotten flower pressed between the pages of a worn-out book, no longer bearing witness to the vibrant life it was destined for.

You never came, and the empty spaces you left behind grew bigger, devouring all that remained of me, swallowed whole by the unending, lonely night. Slowly, deliberately, I walked away from the park, leaving the bouquet propped against the bench, a splash of futile beauty in the gathering dusk. As I reached the end of the park path, the first fat raindrops began to fall. The rain was unrelenting, falling on a stage where only I performed. I walked alone, soaked and shivering, believing in an ending that was never written. I headed back home, dejected; my heart, which had been fluttering with anticipation just hours before, now felt bruised and heavy. The promise of romance had evaporated, leaving behind only the bitter taste of loneliness.

The rain intensified, quickly soaking through my jacket and chilling me to the bone. It splattered on the pavement, mirroring the unshed tears that burned behind my eyes. The sky wept harder, and the rain turned to cold, unforgiving snow. It clung to me, a cold embrace against skin already numb. Time warped into a frozen landscape, each falling flake a reminder of your absence. It was a fitting soundtrack to my misery, a weeping sky lamenting my foolish, romantic heart. I didn’t run, didn’t seek shelter. I walked on, letting the storm wash over me, a cold, cleansing baptism in the waters of rejection. Maybe it would wash away the sting, the disappointment, the ache of waiting for someone who was never going to come. The hope I once held, a fragile bird, has finally fallen silent, its wings broken by the weight of this unending vigil, leaving me to wander in this space, a ghost in my own life, marked by the chilling echo of your never-arriving footsteps, and I am forever here, waiting in the wake of the promise that was nothing more than a lie written in the dark shadows of your heart.

But as I trudged onward, I knew, deep down, that the rain could only dampen my clothes, not my heart. The ache would linger, a silent reminder of the woman who wasn’t and the love that would never be.