June 9th, 1989

June 9th, 1989

Gerona airport, Spain

When Ben finally showed up in the early hours of this morning, he found me slightly worse for wear, sitting outside with Isobel and Morag. He didn’t say a word before he went inside and by the time I stumbled back to the caravan he was asleep, or at least pretended to be.

When the alarm buzzed at seven, the first thing I felt was regret, followed swiftly by an overwhelming feeling of sadness that this was “it.” We skirted around each other whilst getting dressed and spoke in the same manner as acquaintances with zero trace of the two people who fell madly in love six years ago.

My stuff was already packed and as silly as it sounds, watching Ben carry my suitcase out was one of the saddest parts of today. He was in work mode and I watched as he gathered up his holidaymakers and swiftly got everyone onto the coach. The excursion was to a water park in Spain and the drive through the French countryside was quite spectacular. I made a promise to myself to return when I’m not reeling from everything that transpired during this time.

I sat at the front of the coach and when Ben wasn’t making announcements or dealing with an issue he came and sat with me. We did speak but only minimally and only because to do otherwise would have been much too awkward.

At the water park, I surprised myself by flying down every slide imaginable, including the giant, twisty one that took my breath away. At one point, Ben pulled me aside and held me so tight I thought I might snap. “I can’t believe I’m letting you go,” he whispered in my ear as I stood, trying not to react to the all too familiar sensations coursing through my body.

When we left the water park tonight I sat at the front of the coach again with Ben and a few miles into the drive, he reached for my hand. The driver had already told me it would take twenty minutes to reach the point where I’d be dropped off, before the coach headed back to France.

When the driver turned and said, “Only five minutes more,” Ben squeezed my hand and when I glanced at his reflection in the window, it took everything I had not to cry.

“Will you write to me?” Ben asked, while the driver retrieved my suitcase from the hold.

I shook my head no but the little voice was screaming otherwise. Nobody was aware of the fact they were witnessing the end of our relationship, so when Ben kissed me goodbye, a hearty cheer emanated from inside the coach. I didn’t watch Ben walking away nor did I look back, but I did hear more cheers and the horn beep as the coach pulled away.

At the taxi stand, I sat on the bench for the longest time, feeling numb, not quite knowing how I’d make it here, to the airport, let alone all the way home.

To say my heart is broken sounds like I feel it can be put back together again but that’s not at all how I feel. It’s a feeling I don’t know what to do with.

 

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