Waiting For Sunday

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{Two Weeks Later}

There’s this strange and invisible force, an invisible string that sits between us, connecting us by our hearts, keeping us tethered.

I could ignore what happened, I could keep feeling like shit because of it, but I don’t want to, I want to move on, I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I’ve not slept properly, and I’ve not given in to anything or anyone since that moment I left his apartment that night.

So why as I wander through the city, do I suddenly feel like he’s watching me, feel like his eyes are burning into my body. I naïvely thought that now, after all this time I wouldn't run into him. Seattle was a big city and so bumping into him seemed impossible, but when I stand in line, waiting for my coffee, I feel his presence behind me.

Turning around, my lungs stop, the feeling of ice flooding my veins. His soft green eyes look to me, sadness etched on his face.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

“H-hi,” I stammer in reply, the sudden feeling of the weight of the world pressing against my chest.

“Sunday— your coffee,” the girl from behind the counter calls. I don’t answer straight away, I just keep watching him, his eyes watching me.


“Sorry— yes— thanks,” I say, picking it up and walking towards the small station to add sugar. Goosebumps rise on my skin as I languidly stir the dark but milky and steaming liquid inside its cardboard cup, something I rarely do.

“Can we talk? His voice asks, making me jump a little when I look up. Just the smell of him, his aftershave attacking my senses. I should say no, after all, Jake will be here soon.

“I haven’t got long and I’m sure you need to head back to work,”

“I do, but I’ll always have time for you Sunday, I always have,”

I nod and wait as we find a small table, sitting opposite each other, and uncomfortable silence falls between us, our eyes looking everywhere else but at each other.

“So,” we both eventually begin but stop the second we hear each other.

“So,” he starts, “I missed you,”

“You have?”

“Of course I have,” he sighs, reaching his hand across the table. I don’t pull away but then again I don’t reach out for him either.

“I’ve been desperate to talk to you, but the longer the time passed, the harder it felt to reach out. I wasn’t sure if you’d ever speak to me again. Amalia told me every time I spoke to her that you didn’t want to know and then after that day,”

“You mean after you rang,”

“Yes. You told me not to ring you again and I so desperately wanted to talk to you, explain everything that happened and what I meant, what I really meant when I said I had a—,”

“A wife— Charlotte, that’s her name isn’t it?”

“Yes— Charlotte,” his tone irritated by the mention of her.

“So why did you never tell me? Was I some sort of secret you kept hidden from her, someone you never wanted her to know about?”

“No, you weren’t a secret, because there was no secret to hide. She was my wife,”


“Yes Sunday, was,”

“And what is she now?”

“She’s just someone I married because I had to,”

“Had to? Oliver, I won't deny that I’ve— I’ve missed you, that you haven't been on my mind because you have, but you hurt me, you didn’t tell me the truth, you just sprung it on me, it’s like you didn’t care that all the time we were together that it hadn’t occurred to you to tell me you were married,”

“I was going to tell you, that’s what I tried to do that night, I needed you to know, but then when I began telling you, you just— well you took it all wrong and I didn’t want that to happen and then I blurted it out, and I know Sunday, I know I fucked it all up, and I’m so sorry I did, because well, because I loved you,”

My eyes snap up, looking from my hand wrapped around the cardboard cup into his green eyes. He— loved me? Loved. Past tense. I try to ignore the searing and throbbing pain in my chest, the stinging behind my eyes.


His eyes fall to his own coffee cup before looking slowly back up, “Love,”

“You said loved,”

“I know I did, but I don’t mean that I mean— I do, I loved you then Sunday and I still do, I love you, I always have,” he says, silence falling between us again.

“Sunday?” My eyes widen, snapping up to see Jake looking between us both.

“J-Jake,” I stammer, my eyes switching between the two of men.

“This is him?” Oliver suddenly asks, confusion and anger in his voice.

“Oliver I—,”

“No it’s fine, it’s— I shouldn't have said anything. Clearly—,” he stands, looking between us again, his brows furrowing, “Clearly you never really felt anything for me, didn't actually miss me, not in the way I did for you, I’m just— I’m gonna go,”

“Oliver wait!” I exclaim, tears trickling down my cheeks as he begins to stride from the coffee shop.

“Sunny, what the fuck is going on?”

“Just stay here, I’ll— I’ll be right back,”

I chase after him, crashing through the door and looking frantically left and right, searching desperately for Oliver and then I see him, see him heading towards the office.

“Oliver! Oliver wait!” I call out, my feet moving before I even think of running after him.

“Please just wait,” I plead, my fingers curling around his wrist. He spins around, his eyes red, his cheeks flushed as he looks away.

“Sunday, just leave it,”

“No, I won’t just fucking leave it,”

“What is he to you?”


“Who?” He scoffs, “Jake— number five,”

“He’s— he’s,”

“Right, never mind,” he says, his lips pressing together in a thin line.

“Damn you, Oliver Ross, you don’t get to be angry! I didn’t lie to you, I’ve never lied to you,”

“I’ve never lied to you!” He exclaims, his eyes never leaving mine as he grabs me, pulling me flush against his body, “I love you Sunday, I always have. The moment I walked into that fucking studio, and I saw you looking at me the way you did, I wanted you, fuck did I want you, and you’ll never know how much you mean to me, how much I wish you were mine and how sorry I am that I didn’t tell you about Charlotte, but she’s not my wife, not anymore,”

“What?” I reply, my voice trembling.

“We’re not married anymore, she finally granted me a divorce, she’s nothing to me now, she’s not you and she never will be!”

“Oliver what are you saying?”

With a heavy sigh, he looks to me, his free hand cupping my cheek, “I love you Sunday, I always have,” he says, before crashing his lips against my own, his coffee dropping to the floor as his other hand cups my face, and kisses me, kisses me like he’ll never get to kiss me again.

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