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They all give me advice actually. On what to do next.
How to play it cool and how to show him that he doesn’t affect me. That I’m not still pining over him.
Which is all great.
And I do listen to them.
Not because I want to show him how okay I am after the breakup — I’m not and it’s fine if he sees that — but because I don’t want to freak him out. I don’t want him to think that I came here for him or that I’m stalking him.
I want this to look natural and non-threatening.
Me running into him here to talk. To apologize and to start building bridges.
So the fact that he’s looking at me in a good way helps my confidence a bit.
I try to peek at him through my eyelashes or the corner of my eyes, trying to catch his eyes, make some contact. It takes a while but during one of these surveys, my eyes clash with his.
And my heart soars in my chest.
With happiness. With glee.
Because in his gaze, I find the old Lucas. The one who looked at me with adoration and love.
With warmth.
The last time I looked into his eyes, they appeared hurt. Angry and betrayed.
So I excuse myself to go to the bathroom then, hoping that he’ll get the signal. That he’ll follow me.
God, please let him follow me.
In the restroom, which is thankfully and surprisingly empty, I look myself in the mirror. I pat my hair. I wash my hands.
“He’s looking at you,” I tell myself. “Maybe he misses you. Maybe he missed you like you’ve missed him and maybe…”
No, I’m not going there. I’m not thinking about getting back together with him.
Not right now.
Not ever even.
This isn’t about that.
I’m just happy that I may have a chance to apologize to him. I can’t possibly hope for anything else, anything more. Not after what I did.
I smile at myself in the mirror.
Then with another deep breath, I turn around and walk out, hoping to find him standing outside.
But instead, I find someone else.
Someone who makes me come to a screeching, jarring halt. As if I’ve run into a wall.
An obstacle, a hurdle.
A problem.
And I have, haven’t I?
