Chasing You Through Time
The first time I lost her, it was raining.
Not the gentle kind that drizzles like a whisper against the window, but the kind that falls hard and fast—like the sky itself is breaking apart. I stood at the old railway platform, soaked to the bone, watching the train disappear into the distance.
Inside that train was Elena.
And inside Elena was a future I hadn't been brave enough to fight for.
If I had known then what I know now, I would have run.
---
Elena believed in time.
Not just clocks and calendars—but destiny. She used to say that time wasn't a straight line. It was a circle, looping us back to the moments that mattered most.
"People who are meant to be," she once told me, brushing her fingers across my palm, "will always find each other. Even if they have to cross years to do it."
I used to laugh at that.
I don't laugh anymore.
---
We met in college, in a library neither of us liked but both of us needed. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor between the history shelves, surrounded by books like a fortress. I accidentally knocked one over.
"Careful," she had said without looking up. "You might disturb the past."
"And what if the past deserves to be disturbed?" I asked.
That made her look at me.
That was the beginning.
Elena had eyes that seemed older than her age, as if she carried memories from another lifetime. She dreamed of traveling the world—Paris, Kyoto, Florence. I dreamed of stability, of building something solid and unshakable.
We were different.
But somehow, we fit.
For three years, we built a world made of shared coffee cups, late-night conversations, and promises whispered under city lights. We spoke about the future as if it were already ours.
Until it wasn't.
---
The opportunity came suddenly.
A prestigious research fellowship overseas. One year abroad. It was everything she had worked for.
"You have to go," I told her.
The words felt like glass in my throat.
"And you?" she asked quietly.
"I'll be here."
She waited.
She wanted me to say I'd follow her.
But I didn't.
Fear has a strange way of disguising itself as responsibility. I told myself I had obligations. A job. Family. Stability.
The truth?
I was afraid of starting over.
So she left.
And I stayed.
---
The first few months were manageable. We called. We texted. We counted time zones and planned visits.
But time is cruel when stretched too thin.
Calls became shorter. Messages less frequent. The space between us widened—not suddenly, but gradually, like a crack in glass.
Until one day, she said the words neither of us wanted to hear.
"I don't know how to do this anymore."
I should have fought.
Instead, I whispered, "Maybe it's for the best."
That was the second time I lost her.
---
Years passed.
I built the stable life I had once wanted. A steady job. A quiet apartment. Familiar streets.
And yet, something was always missing.
Sometimes I'd see a woman with dark hair laughing in a café and my heart would race before logic caught up. Sometimes I'd hear a song we once loved and feel time collapse in on itself.
I dated.
I tried.
But every connection felt like a shadow compared to what we had.
Because love like that doesn't fade.
It waits.
---
Five years later, I saw her name on a book cover.
Elena Rossi – "The Architecture of Memory."
She had become a writer. Of course she had.
I bought the book.
On the first page was a dedication:
For the one who taught me that love is both a place and a journey.
My hands trembled.
Was it about me?
Or was I just another chapter she had closed?
At the back of the book, there was an announcement. A book signing. In my city.
In three days.
For three nights, I barely slept.
Part of me said it was foolish. That too much time had passed. That we were strangers now.
But another part—the louder part—whispered her old words back to me:
People who are meant to be will always find each other.
Maybe this was the circle closing.
---
The bookstore was crowded when I arrived.
She stood behind a table, signing copies with the same focused expression she once wore in the library. Her hair was shorter now. Her posture more confident.
But her eyes—
Her eyes were the same.
When it was my turn, I placed the book in front of her.
She didn't look up immediately.
"Name?" she asked softly.
I swallowed.
"Daniel."
Her pen froze.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
Time stopped.
Not metaphorically.
Not poetically.
It truly felt as though the world paused between heartbeats.
"Daniel," she repeated.
I nodded.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Years of silence pressed between us, heavy and fragile.
"You look…" she began.
"Older?" I offered.
She laughed—a soft, familiar sound that shattered the distance instantly.
"Real," she finished.
I didn't know what that meant.
But I liked it.
---
After the signing, we walked outside together.
The city hadn't changed much. The same streetlights. The same hum of traffic. But everything felt sharper, more alive.
"How have you been?" she asked.
"Existing," I admitted. "You?"
"Traveling. Writing. Searching."
"For what?"
She looked at me carefully.
"For something that felt like home."
The air shifted.
"I thought you found that," I said quietly.
"I thought so too," she replied.
Silence settled between us—but not the uncomfortable kind. It was filled with unsaid truths and second chances.
"Why didn't you come after me?" she asked suddenly.
The question hit harder than I expected.
"I was afraid," I said honestly. "Afraid of losing everything."
"And what did you lose instead?"
I met her eyes.
"You."
Tears shimmered there, but she didn't look away.
"I waited," she whispered. "For a long time."
Guilt twisted inside me.
"I know."
---
We stood there under the glow of the streetlight, just like we had years ago at the train station.
"I don't believe time separates people," she said softly. "I think it reveals them."
"And what did it reveal about us?"
"That we were unfinished."
The word hung in the air.
Unfinished.
Not broken.
Not impossible.
Just incomplete.
"I don't want to chase you through time anymore," I said. "I want to walk beside you."
Her breath caught.
"This isn't nostalgia?" she asked. "Or regret?"
"No," I said firmly. "It's clarity."
For years, I had chased the memory of her. Compared every new beginning to what we once had.
But this—
This wasn't about the past.
It was about the choice in front of us.
"I can't promise it will be easy," she warned.
"It wasn't easy before either."
She stepped closer.
"You'd leave this time?"
"Yes."
"You'd risk it?"
"Yes."
She searched my face as if looking for hesitation.
She didn't find any.
Because time had done what it was meant to do.
It had stripped away fear.
---
The next morning, we stood at the airport together.
This time, there were no unspoken expectations. No silent sacrifices.
"Are you sure?" she asked, echoing a question from long ago.
"I'm done letting time decide for me," I said. "If I have to chase you across continents to prove that, I will."
She smiled through tears.
"You won't have to chase," she said. "I'm right here."
When our flight was called, we walked forward together.
Not because destiny demanded it.
Not because time looped us back.
But because we chose it.
Love is not always about perfect timing.
Sometimes, it's about being willing to run when the moment finally arrives.
And this time—
When time tried to pull us apart—
I ran toward her.
Not chasing the past.
But building a future.
Together.