"Catherine."

The notes his beautiful voice sing whispers of heartache and hesitation; his eyes harbor unmasked trepidation. The three syllables are followed by a sharp intake of breath; my mind is so clouded that I can not tell from whose mouth it is issued from. My heartbeat ricochets violently against my chest; goose bumps creep along the surface of my skin like hundreds of insects ticking the surface. A silence heavily blankets the unspoken words running through our minds. My emerald eyes find their twin; the resemblance so striking that it causes the oxygen to completely falter its route to my lungs. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but my mouth stumbles the same way my feet do when I miss a step while walking up the stairs.

These past two weeks, I have thought about meeting this boy as often as I have blinked, but the image I had conjured in my mind gives the boy standing in front of me no justice. I had pictured him as the spitting image of his father – tall, intimidating, a thick but athletic build, short auburn hair, and dark eyes that could penetrate the soul. Instead, he appears small, as if trying to divert all attention from him, and rather slender for a boy at fifteen; his hair is longer than I had imagined, and dark like mine, hanging low over his skittish eyes before he brushes it away. His skin nearly matches the ivory clouds above us; his pristine visage is as beautiful and sheen as snow glittering the ground on Christmas morning. A flattering scarf shields his neck while a shirt matches below it, and a raven coat stretches over most of the thin fabric.

His gaze finally flickers nervously away and lingers on the concrete below him. He digs his hands into his deep coat pockets. He clears his throat, and without looking at me, he says softly, "You're young."

I nod numbly. My emotions are overriding, and I can not find the courage to speak. My throat feels like I have lived my entire life without water; my chest is tight and my stomach churns like I'm riding on a rollercoaster; my nails are digging into my palms mercilessly. I imagine his friends' moms are probably somewhere in their early forties. Me? I'm barely thirty-one.

Tears start spilling down my cheeks. My mind fantasizes about the life with this boy that could have been. Regret pulls me down like gravity, and my knees nearly buckle from the overpowering sensation. More "what ifs" cycle in my head, the repetitive emotions reeling in and out like a fisherman's rod catching one fish after another. I could have been his mother, but I am only the disillusioned girl who abandoned him. Tremors quake my body, and nature is even disgusted at me; the clouds have started to spit raindrops onto my disheveled form. The boy looks up and sees me for the first time. His mouth slackens in shock. I attempt a half-smile, but I know it comes out as a painful grimace.

"I'm... I'm sorry," I whisper.

I can't do this. I don't even deserve to be in the same room as this beautiful boy. I turn away, but before I can walk a hand clutches onto the sleeve of my jacket in the same manner a drowning man grabs the hand of its rescuer.

"Don't go. Please don't leave me again."

His voice is so desperate, and an epiphany strikes me. My boy, my son, contacted me. The second chance is splayed in front of me. I suck in a breath.

I turn around, and we hold each other while our last tears melt into the rain, never seen again.