“Hatred stirs conflict, but love covers over all wrongs.” ~ Proverbs 10:12
By the time the last bus had pulled
away, Connor was the only person still sitting beneath the terminal’s
flickering lights. Rain drummed a steady, hollow beat against its metal roof.
The town had gone quiet hours ago, but he remained on the hard wooden bench,
staring at his cell phone.
Across the wet pavement, the storefront where Kathryn used
to work stood shrouded in shadows. He could still see her there in his mind,
dusting flour off her apron and laughing at him through the window. Back then,
loving her was as natural as a heartbeat.
Now, those memories cut like jagged glass.
An elderly custodian, rhythmic in his sweeping, eventually
paused near him. “Last ride's gone, son. You waiting for someone special?”
Connor locked his phone. “Not anymore.”
The man nodded as if he understood more than Connor had
offered. “Funny thing loving someone,” he murmured. “It leaves slower
than anger.”
Connor almost laughed at that. Anger was all
he had left. If he hated her, he didn't have to admit how badly losing her
hurt.
The old man gathered the debris into a neat pile before pushing
the broom down the hallway.
Connor glanced out and watched rain blur the empty streets. That old
guy was right. Anger had been easy. It had given him something to hold onto,
someone to blame. Letting go of it felt harder.
Somewhere in the city, Kathryn was living a life that no longer
included him. The thought hollowed him out. Yet beneath the anger, humiliation
and grief, something warmer remained.
He wished he could hate her cleanly. Instead, he found himself
remembering small things he had no right to miss—the dimple in her laugh, the
flour dusting her sleeve, the distinct scent of her perfume. He loathed that
those memories refused to vanish simply because the relationship did.
He stood slowly and slung the backpack over his shoulder.
There would be another bus in the morning. As he walked toward the exit, he
pulled out his phone one last time.
His thumb hovered over the conversation thread before he
pressed “delete.” Not out of
spite, but as an act of release. He was tired of fanning the fire.
Outside, the
rain had softened into a warm mist. For the first time since the breakup, the
silence no longer felt like a void. It felt like a beginning.
