Currents of Unknowing

The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and shimmering under the weak afternoon sun. Carson pulled his hood further down, the damp air clinging to his hair. He checked his phone again, the screen showing 3:17 PM. Seventeen minutes past when she said she’d be there. Portage Avenue hummed with buses splashing through puddles, their exhausts puffing grey clouds into the crisp autumn air. He traced the condensation on the window of the empty coffee shop, a familiar ache starting behind his ribs. This was supposed to be it. The talk. The one that would fix everything, or at least give them a path forward.

A group of teenagers, too loud and too cheerful, spilled out of the Millennium Library across the street, their laughter sharp against the drone of traffic. Carson scowled, wishing he had his headphones. He needed silence, or at least a soundtrack to match the growing dread in his gut. His gaze drifted to the intersection, a landmark of Winnipeg, a point of constant movement and indifferent energy. Everyone else was going somewhere, doing something. He was just waiting, suspended.

He remembered Sarah's smile beneath the lights of The Forks last winter, the way her gloved hand felt in his. He’d told himself it wasn't over. Not really. Just a rough patch. A misunderstanding. He’d replayed their last argument a hundred times, dissecting every word, every missed beat. He’d even written out a list of points, bulleted, logical, ready to present. A ridiculous thing, he knew, but what else was there to do but try to control the uncontrollable?

Another five minutes crawled by. The coffee shop’s 'Closed' sign seemed to mock him, reflecting the grey sky. He pushed open the door of the 7-Eleven next door, the bell jangling a tinny tune. The smell of stale coffee and hot dogs hit him. He bought a bottle of lukewarm water, the transaction feeling heavy and meaningless. Sarah hated 7-Elevens. Said they smelt like desperation. He almost laughed, a dry, bitter sound that caught in his throat.

He walked back out, the bottle cold in his hand. Her text came then, a sudden vibration, bright on the dim screen. His heart hammered. He opened it, his thumb trembling slightly. 'Carson, I can't. This isn't fair to either of us. I think we need to just… stop. Sarah.' No 'I'm sorry.' No 'It's not you, it's me.' Just a blunt, efficient execution. The words blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. He read it three times, each word a fresh wound.

The Unspoken Echo

The phone slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the damp pavement, the screen miraculously intact. He didn't pick it up. Couldn't. The noise of the city, which had been a dull thrum, suddenly sharpened into a painful roar. The buses, the car horns, the distant siren. Each sound was an individual stab. He felt exposed, stripped bare on the corner of the busiest intersection in the city, his private world crashing down around him while everyone else simply carried on.

He walked, not knowing where he was going. He passed the old Exchange District buildings, their red brick faces indifferent to his turmoil. The cobblestones underfoot felt uneven, threatening to trip him. He saw couples laughing, friends sharing secrets, people hurrying with purpose. Each happy face was a cruel mirror. He wanted to shout, to rail against the injustice of it, but nothing came. Just a hollow space where his voice used to be.

He ended up by the river, the Red sluggish and brown, churning silently. The air here was cooler, carrying the damp scent of soil and decaying leaves. He sat on a cold stone bench, hunched, his elbows on his knees, staring at the grey water. The text, the finality of it, played on a loop in his mind. *This isn't fair to either of us. I think we need to just… stop.* Stop. Like a car engine seizing. Like a film reel snapping. An abrupt, definitive end.

He remembered the promise of summer, the long talks under the prairie sky. He remembered her scent, the way her hair brushed his cheek when they danced. Now, those memories felt like foreign objects, sharp-edged and dangerous. They didn’t belong to him anymore. They belonged to a past that had just been severed, leaving a jagged wound.

A lone cyclist pedalled past, their tyres crunching on the gravel path. The afternoon light began to fade, casting long, distorted shadows across the riverbank. He felt a profound aloneness, a stark, cold fact that settled deep in his bones. It wasn't just Sarah he'd lost, it was the future he’d built around her, brick by invisible brick. And now, the foundations were gone, leaving him standing on unstable ground, the city lights beginning to prickle on, uncaring.

He pulled out his phone, the screen still miraculously fine, still showing Sarah’s text, frozen in time. He typed a reply, then deleted it. Typed another, longer, more desperate, then deleted that too. What was there to say? The conversation was over before it even began. He stood up, the cold seeping into his trousers, and looked out at the river. The current moved relentlessly, carrying debris downstream. Just like everything else, it kept going.

He had wanted answers. He had wanted closure. What he got was a text message on a damp Winnipeg afternoon, leaving him adrift in a city that suddenly felt vast and empty. The cold wind bit at his ears, and for the first time, he felt tears welling, hot and unwelcome. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, trying to force them back, trying to force back the truth that was now undeniable.