I once read somewhere that all good love stories begin at the Grand Central Terminal; little did I know that bittersweet ones start there, too.

I met him on the first day of Spring, the gentle cool wind lingered in Manhattan

He quietly waited for me by the high-rise buildings along Lexington, with elaborate doric designs that rose among the gargoyles that watched us

We walked to a Mexican restaurant full of loud people who tended to each of their own

We had succulent tacos and small talk about our lives and what we do

Next thing we knew, we were at the rooftop, kissing gently, holding each other as if we were together for a long time.

I took a train to Mets-Willets Point the next day and walked the long wooden bridge to Corona Park

I hated walking such a long way, but I did not mind because it was him that I would find at the end

We walked along the vast green fields, watched the boys play softball and listened to the little girls that cooked mud in their kitchen sets

He held me at a little bridge above a swamp as we waited for the dead carp to swim.

It was that day that I fell in love with him; how I loved walking along the long way that led me to the park, and to him.

We made love in Kew Gardens, along the high trees that proudly flaunted their branches and healthy green leaves

He warmed my body and melted the ice in my heart brought by the cold and dreadful winter seasons ago

He brought fire to my life and he eliminated the mundane

I burned with passion for him, and he for me; our love was as tempting as fire is to a moth.

We then sat by the pond at Bowne Park and we promised each other eternal love

We had stolen moments, stolen kisses; he trailed his finger along my palm, to where a wedding ring would rest.

We spoke of our ideals and dreams at a bar in Brooklyn, his were the sweetest

I was intoxicated not from the lager but by his hazel eyes and his smiles

The smell of his skin was as fresh as the morning dew; it set my mind to an overdrive.

He was my haven, my comfort zone

He was my precious little secret that I wanted to scream to the world.

He took a train back to Manhattan to meet me, and again he waited by my building

We tried Indian food this time, he knew it was my favorite.

I gave him a little dark book to his surprise; little did we know that it was the last time that we will see each other.

We walked back to Grand Central Terminal, the point where it all began

He took a photograph of us to add to our future photo album

We kissed each other goodnight, and it was the last time that I kissed him.

They say that good love stories begin at Grand Central Terminal,

But I came to realize that the sad, bittersweet ones start there, too.

–Sarah Montenegro

Sarah is an NYC professional by day, a writer by night. She writes horror and tragic stories, and sometimes, about past lives. Recently, she tried dabbling into poetry. You can email her at and you can check out her short stories at

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