tatsuki, 36.

he is late.

he is always late.

it's already 7pm.

the reservation was for 6:45pm.

there is still a good thirty minutes on the train to get there.
he is running-- yet still unsure--if he runs home and pretends he mixed up the dates-- or if he runs to the restaurant to meet her.


in a minute he will stop and text her:

"i am late. i am very very late. as always."


she will read the message, the blue checkmarks will confirm.
but she will never reply.

he will stare at his phone, see that she is online-- staring at hers.

and all the way to the restaurant he won’t know if she will be there waiting for him— or if this time was the last time she actually did.

he is late.

he is always late.