He was running the whole morning. Thats what he likes to do when his problems go above his capacities. He's not that strong, and even if everyone likes to tell him otherwise, he knows his limitations. He knows when to stop, breath and think clearly.
He was very, very tired. He had no breath to give just one more step. Then he sat down on the grass, thinking of his experiences. He had never been lucky, and, once again, was in the same dead end. He could not stop blaming himself, because there was no better comfort at a time like this. "I'm late." She could be a perfect girl, but she wouldn't be the perfect one for him. He would have to live with this pain: It would have to live with the fact that now she is perfect to another one. He arrived late. A year late. Enough to lose her, without even imagine before that she has existed.
So he stood up, heating his body, shaking his muscles slightly, and returned to his exercise to finish up his daily running schedule. He's not unhappy, he's just tired and disappointed. He never thought that the posibility of going through all this maelstrom again could be so eminent. He never thought that, for some reason, destiny would came with a stranger to match his routine, and, besides this, choose the most perfect stranger that he would never expect to one day meet.
He kept his life. Slashing shadows with swords of shadows and painting his life with shades of black and white. Maybe he's tired. Maybe he's just disappointed. Maybe he's dead, since his life walks to this constant dead end. And the poor guy struggles on.
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