Momentary Decisions

The snow crunched beneath his boots. His steps were irritatingly slow. There was stillness in the frigid air. He could see her from afar but was wary of getting too close. For months he had watched. Yet he hadn’t found the courage to move closer. The sun glistened against her hair, its shade contrasting the white of winter that surrounded them. Placing a hand against the tree, he leaned in.

Her laugh chimed as she played—so joyous, so carefree. He remembered a time when laughter had belonged to him too. Moments of pure bliss, however fleeting they had been. She had yet to see him. Then again, people rarely did. He was nobody. Just another face in the crowd. Another voice in a sea of melodies. She, however, was like a flower in the desert.

He moved a few steps closer as she drifted away, not wanting to lose sight of her. Each step was louder than the last, the hardened snow crackling under the weight of his foot. He was careful to remain hidden from view. He didn’t want to startle her. Besides, people act differently when they know they’re being watched. Their words become careful. Their actions hesitant. Here, he could see her for what she truly was—not a façade for others’ sake. Here, she was as unguarded and pure as the snow itself.

She stopped as the snow grew heavier, a giggle escaping her lips. She stuck out her tongue, catching the flakes as they fell.

He took another step, this one more deliberate. His mind wandered to the last time she had looked at him—tears streaking down her face, her once-bright eyes dulled by the pain behind them.

A split second was all it took for her to hate him.

A split second was all it took for him to hate himself.

A split second to turn their world upside down.

And he had been too much of a coward to push through the debris.

She, on the other hand, had faced it—and come out the other side. Had he not known the pain they’d shared, he’d have never guessed she had known it. Her eyes were bright once again, despite the loss he had caused them.

If he hadn’t gone on the late-night drive.

If he had stayed.

If the car hadn’t run the red light.

If, if, if.

Now she had put herself back together—after he hadn’t been there to pick up the pieces.

And he was still as broken as the day he left. The years hadn’t dulled the pain. Hadn’t scrubbed away the shame of his cowardice. He had pieced himself back together, but the pieces were out of place—jagged and forced to fit.

The wind howled, as if mourning with him. Mourning what could have been if he had stayed. Mourning who he once was. The truth was he could barely look at himself in the mirror anymore. The scar running down his brow was a reminder of the night he turned away from everything he knew. A reminder of the life—and the people—he had left behind.

The wind blew off her scarf. He watched as it flew—then fell at his feet. The blood-red color contrasted starkly with the white snow. He remembered the day he had given it to her. Just a few days before he saw her last. He knelt to pick it up.

He heard hurried footsteps as she ran toward her scarf. The snow crunched under her boots. Step after step. He froze.

“Thank you. I wasn’t expecting it to go flying off like that.” Her voice warmed his heart.

But he was rigid. He didn’t dare move. Refused to look up. He didn’t want to know what he’d find on her face. The words he had planned burned like acid on his tongue. His gaze stayed locked on the scarf in his hands.

She took a step back. “Can I have it back?” She swayed on her feet. Still, he didn’t move. His limbs felt like stone. The color drained from his face, his complexion nearing that of the snow beneath him.

She shifted again, hugging herself. “Sir?” Her voice wavered. “The scarf…”

He swallowed, a knot forming in his throat. He reached out his hand. Her fingers grazed his, and all the air left his lungs. He finally looked up.

Her smile faltered. A sharp exhale escaped her lips.

He remained on one knee—a living echo of a memory that felt like a lifetime ago.

“You missed the funeral,” she finally said.

“You just left,” she added, her voice rising slightly.

His gaze dropped.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he whispered, defeated. Tears hit the snow.

She reached out her hand.

“Come. It’s cold. Let’s go home. I’ve been waiting.”

He looked at her face. A ghost of a smile rested there.

He blinked, unsure if the cold had conjured a hallucination. But her hand was still there, trembling slightly—either from the chill or from everything unspoken between them.

“You’ve been… waiting?” His voice cracked. “For me?”

She gave a small nod. “Not always,” she said, eyes flickering with memory. “For a long time, I hoped you’d come back. Then I tried to forget you. Tried to hate you.”

He flinched. But she went on.

“But you were always there. In the scarf. In the songs we used to listen to. In the way silence felt heavier when you weren’t in the room.”

He stood slowly, unsure if his legs would carry him. They did, just barely. His hand reached for hers.

“I wanted to come back a hundred times,” he said. “But I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“I didn’t. Not at first. Especially after you left. I was sucked into a vacuum, and you weren’t there to pull me out. But with time, I learned to forgive you. To see that you weren’t really at fault. Maybe I can help you do the same.”

He took her hand.

And for the first time in years, breathing didn’t feel like punishment.