The air is still beside the Betjeman statue.
Sir John’s tilted face catches the mid-morning sunlight beaming down on him through the glass roof high above his head, pooling around his feet. I don’t see the commuters hurrying past, or the pockets of tourists posing with the famous poet’s memorial. Here the station noise is muted: I can hear my breath, feel the urgent pulse of blood at my wrists and hear the quickening thrum of my heart louder than any other sound.
11 a.m., 14th June.
One year exactly from the day we met.
Where I promised I’d be.
Sam’s train was due in before mine, but it will take him a while to get across from King’s Cross and up to the first floor of St Pancras. He’ll come running up the stairs any moment now, the distance between us finally closed like two hands meeting, two halves of a heart joining.
What will he do when he gets here?
What will he say?
I close my eyes. Mark the moment before everything changes forever.