Backhand Stories: The Creative Writing Blog

Twenty-four hours of travel.

She is across the world and for him, it isn’t love.

Standing on the steps of a small restaurant, on a crowded street in Chinatown.

Watching the car drive away.

If it were her in that car, she would trace the raindrops on the window with the tip of her index finger.

Following their path.

No. If it were her in that car, she wouldn’t have left.

She began crying before he said goodbye and now, now she’s sobbing uncontrollably.

Really, she’s still just a little girl. Eighteen years old is not a woman.

She is a child, alone and across the world.

For him. It isn’t love. For him it isn’t love.

She hasn’t cried like this since she lost a loved one.

Oh. She sees,

Dead means gone.

Shaking, cold and wet, crying. This moment defines alone.

Her entire body is crying. Each organ is bawling.

Her bones are aching, the marrow in them shaking. Her heart is pounding, so fast, her ribs could be breaking.

It’s pouring now, she thinks the sky is crying for her too.

She’s caught a cab, between gasps for air, she tells him the address of her hotel.

Hugging the seat, shifting her body.

She cannot sit still, she cannot stifle her cries.

He says nothing. Maybe he doesn’t have daughters.

Arrived, so far across town, she reaches out her shaking hand, grip slipping.

He holds up his hand and shakes his head, their eyes finally meet.

His eyes finally speak.

When it rains in Australia this time of year, it’s magic.

His heart aches.

Because. For her, the rain isn’t so.