She walked the river path day in, day out, purely in the empty hope that she might see him there. She never did though. And by now, a year – no, almost two years on, she didn’t even really believe she ever might anymore. It was more a compulsion or a fear that if he did happen, by some miracle, to walk back down by the river one day looking for her and she wasn’t there, that he might not realise she still looked for him at all. She didn’t want him to think like that, not after everything they had been through.

Her head would argue that waiting was pointless, before being stifled by her heart’s loud begging and pleading to wait just another day for him…and just another…. and just one more.

And she would sit there in that place where the daffodils once grew and pull the dandelions and weeds away from the foot of the small, rotting bench. Their heart was still carved into the bark of the old oak, clearly visible after all this time, though somewhat worn. Their initials still side by side, of course suffering the pain of the wear and tear, but still there – still together – still etched into the bark of a tree she was sure would never, ever, ever be gone from that place.

She would never be gone really, either. Not completely. Sometimes she left, but never for long and only for the essentials  – the food and drink she needed to continue breathing him and the sleep she needed to dream of him. She was there daily in body and always in mind, her soul stuck in the last place she kissed his mouth.

And an eternity might come to pass while she waits, but her heart won’t give up.