"I don't understand joggers."

They walked on the Queen's Walk promenade, along the South Bank. The coolness of the morning was slowly dissipating, the sun rising and already shining. The day hadn't started yet for the masses and the tourists.

There were a few people attracted to the early morning markets, and some joggers on their path, Monica shook her head at Chandler's grimace of disgust.

"I mean, jogging at dawn, it's insane. Look at their faces, look how miserable they are?"

Laughing, Monica wrapped her arm around his waist. "They look fine to me," she said with a mocking smile.

"What? Have you seen one of them smile … ever? Alright, you're a jogger, I get it. Just please tell me you don't go running before ... 7 a.m.?"

She let out another laugh, a soft sound that hummed over his senses, and avoided his stare.

"Oh no, unacceptable … On Sundays too?"

Monica nodded hesitantly, wincing and laughing. Chandler threw his hands up in mock outrage.

"What? I'm sorry but I need to keep in shape."

"You know what other physical activity can keep you in shape and is actually pleasant?" He teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

"And you happen to excel at this physical activity?"

"You tell me."

"Really? You need me to say it?"

"I'm an insecure neurotic nutcase," Chandler said, giving her a pleading look.

"I think I made it abundantly clear how good it was last night, and that's enough ego stroking for you," Monica replied in a husky-edged voice, the slow sweep of her blue-eyed gaze cranked Chandler's awareness up a notch.

He swallowed to keep his voice low and controlled. "No such thing as enough stroking when it comes to a man's ego," he responded with a self-congratulatory grin.

Tilting her head on the side, she smiled wryly. "It was off the charts, Chandler. The definition of mind-blowing. Can we let it go now?"

"I wasn't fishing for such high compliments but I like what I caught."

She rolled her eyes and warm laughter streamed through him.

Restaurants and shops lined up along the path, with punctuated art walls once they neared the National Theater. The two of them were winding down the riverfront when Monica was stopped by the sight of a small poster on a lamp post, advertising the Hampton Court Palace Flower Show. Immediately, her face lightened up. "The largest flower market in the world," she read. "It looks so beautiful."

"Oh flowers, how exciting," he deadpanned.

She opened her mouth to protest, eyes narrowed and faintly indignant, he cut her off preemptively. "Oh, flowers! How exciting!" he repeated with enthusiasm. She pursed her lips and nudged him playfully.

She looked again at the poster. "Thistles, hydrangeas, astrantias and blackberries, dahlias, veronicas," she listed from the pictures of flowers displayed on it, a look of intense concentration on her face. "Look at the dahlias. They're so pretty." She smiled but her gaze remained serious. "They're known to persevere through difficult living conditions, they're strong and graceful, always. They are unique and beautiful, and in Victorian times, lovers would gift them to each other as a symbol of eternal love and commitment."

As she looked at the poster, Chandler only looked at her, transfixed by her introspective tone. She smiled slowly and found him again. "Oh, it's— nevermind." When she paused a second, with hesitation, Chandler instinctively held his breath. "It's next week. We'll miss it."

He saw her smile dim, and felt his heart sink. Next week. Long after London was but a memory. And it was there again, the persisting sense of impending mourning. He offered a half-smile towards her, and they resumed their walk, looking straight ahead and avoiding each other's gaze.

Thy relaxed slightly as they were sitting at the National Film Theater Coffee Shop for breakfast.

Monica wrapped her fingers around a cup of coffee, enjoying the heat spreading through her hands. She glanced at Chandler, who was sipping his coffee and wincing either from its taste or temperature.

She cleared her throat. "So, what's the story gonna be?" she asked.

"Story?"

"When you tell people about this night?"

He paused, studying her soberly. He racked his brain for a good answer and came up short. He couldn't decide if she was serious or teasing, trying to go back to their easy banter and defuse the tension from earlier.

"When I'm seventy, retired and having drinks with my old pals, reminiscing about our wild, misspent youths, I'll tell them I had the ultimate one-night stand in London with a hot girl from New York. I even gave her a fake name. She thought Chandler was my real name, the poor thing. It wasn't very proper. The whole thing was quite provocative."

She pursed her lips, preventing a laugh and matched his tone. "Are you planning to retire in the 50s?"

They shared a smile. His face then turned serious, making her tense, wondering what would come next. He leaned slowly toward her. "I'm not sure I'm ever going to tell anyone about this night, it's … I feel like I could wake up at any moment and realize it was a figment of my imagination ... Even in my wildest dreams, I never—"

She interrupted his trailed off voice. "Just promise me one thing?"

"Yeah?"

"If you ever become a writer, please don't write a book about it?" she asked, half-jokingly.

"I won't. I promise."

"Do you regret coming back? Is it making it harder?" she asked again, in a softer, more serious tone.

"I don't regret anything I've done in the last 24 hours. And … it might be harder, but I think I feel better now," he paused, weighing his words. "Lighter."

"Me too. Maybe we completed the grieving process. Maybe we've made our peace?"

He smiled shyly, enough for her to catch the hint of his dimples.

"Yeah. Maybe."

The story didn't matter to her, or it mattered less than the guy, than the long conversations and secret sharing, than the sex, than the stupendous spark and the intimacy — or the glances, the touches, the tremors, the embraces, the unadulterated joy and affection. What would the story be? Would she even tell it at all? In the back of her mind, she was already jumping ahead, what if she found love after all this? She knew she couldn't tell this story then, it would hang over every relationship after this today, and if anything went wrong, it would be a cruel reminder of what she was missing.

Chandler sensed her brief absent-mindedness and brought his hand over hers, her whole body stilled, wondering if he suspected her turmoil.

He stood up and looked at his watch, and she knew, it was time. Again.

She swore her heart stopped beating, incapable of looking away from his eyes. The pull of that vivid blue gaze was so wistful, she could feel herself trapped in it, sucked forward by it as if it were a vortex.

They walked over Waterloo Bridge, as Chandler indicated he'd have to take a cab to Heathrow and catch his flight. There was a little distance between them and he didn't fail to notice it. He looked over at Monica. He knew she was trying to process their day together. Maybe she was already on the other side. The 'what happens next' side, the final step of the grieving process — after the bliss and emotion of the day, when real life, real responsibilities, real time took over the fairy-sparkle magic. He understood it, despite the tinge of sadness it made him feel. It was a necessary process, maybe even a coping mechanism. He knew a thing or two about coping mechanisms, he couldn't blame her for being demure and quiet the rest of their last walking miles together.

"Do you believe this is fate? Us, meeting like this? Thousands of miles away from where we live?" she suddenly asked, as he was contemplating the luminous golden glow the morning sun was reflecting on the Palace of Westminster on his right side, and the scintillating reflection of the sleepy, dark water of the Thames.

"I don't believe in fate," he replied in a more forceful way than he intended.

"I know," she said, pausing hesitantly. He caught the sadness in her voice, and sighed. "You're not a hopeless romantic, I got it but—"

"I'm not a romantic but hopeless? Oh yes," he joked, in an attempt to lighten her mood.

"I'm not a hopeless romantic either, but this has got to mean something, right?"

"Honestly? I just don't know what this means. It's too soon to grasp it."

She nodded, then lifted her chin. "Do you think it's just .. randomness?"

"No. Not randomness. Look, it's not fate … but it's chance. Right place and right time. And choice. It's what we decided to do with this thing life threw at us."

A small smile curved her lips. "I like that. So it's more romantic in a way?"

Their eyes met and held. He could see the vulnerability emanating from them and her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "Yes, definitely more romantic," he said, returning her smile.

They continued to walk and turned to their left at the end of the bridge, they found themselves on Whitehall Road, leading to Westminster Station.

Chandler knew their night together made things so much harder, but he didn't regret a second of it. It was meant this way. He always believed if something was too good to be true, it usually was, and he resigned himself to the inevitable end of everything good in his life. Breakups and separations were common to him. He wasn't sure he'd call this a breakup though.

Sure, there was the looming loneliness and ambivalence, but this separation, this parting of ways was different, it carried an entirely more visceral sensation – a brutal, sudden end to unexpected love, one to be experienced like death.

He looked at the small space separating their steps. There was a defeated, restless charge between them.

He wished he was an idealist. That maybe someday, they'd run into each other again. With better timing, and more welcoming ground. Maybe he would be wiser and smarter and just plain better. And he would feel like he'd deserve her then, enough to ask her to take a chance on him. But now, at that moment, he surrendered himself to the belief a fire that burned this bright wasn't meant to last.

They stopped when they arrived outside Westminster Station. Standing in silence, their bodies seeming to speak to each other under the sunlight. Chandler lifted her hand and pressed a lingering kiss into her palm. For another while, she didn't speak, couldn't speak past the tight constriction that spread through her chest to take a stranglehold on her throat.

She felt incapable of uttering a thank you or a goodbye, and he didn't either. Both were givens.

He let her hand go, and held her gaze, catching a gleam of sadness in Monica's eyes, making them shine as brightly as ever. They were so very blue, he could feel himself sinking into their depths.

And then, she hugged him, fiercely, and he melted into the embrace.

For a couple of minutes, everything narrowed to the feel of the man in her arms, to the certainty that it was real. All of it. Memorizing his face, his scent, feeling grateful and bereft.

Realization dawned on her she would never see him again but she was happy that he had managed to make her feel alive and desired, to know that however long it might take to mend her heart, he had opened and lit something unique and new in her.

She tried to say something to that effect, but the words got caught in her throat. He tugged free from her, and lifted his hand to hail a cab. A car approached them and slowed down.

He turned again to her, and took her hand while the other reached for a sheet of paper from his back pocket. "I wrote something to you last night … Before I came back."

He handed her the paper, and when she was about to open it, he stopped her. "Don't— Don't read it now, read it later, after the wedding."

They looked into each other's eyes as the cab beside them stopped. He hugged her again and she felt his heart beating. He held her hand over his chest. Both their hearts beating at the same rhythm. In sync. He knew, she knew and they smiled at the silent acknowledgment of their feelings.

"Have fun at the wedding," he said at last. "I'm sure you will be the most beautiful woman in the room." He gently kissed her, on her forehead, her cheeks, and her lips. For the last time.

She thought her heart would burst with love and break under the burden of hurt.

Chandler got into the car with his bag, and she closed the door after him. The cab started, and he looked back through the window one last time at her as she was standing still. She thought about leaving, going back to the hotel until she heard the characteristic noise of a car in reverse gear.

It was Chandler's cab, tracking back, and it was him who got out of the car, his breath noticeably short. "That thing about not seeing each other until we're 40, let's — let's not do that?" he almost begged.

He waited expectantly for her reaction, restless and his pulse leaping. His words hit her with the force of a sledgehammer. Slowly, the corners of her lips quirked up, and the small smile bloomed into a full grin. "I don't want to wait until we're 40 either."

He laughed nervously. "Right, what was I thinking? Oh God. You know what? Let's meet again, here, in a year?"

"In a year here?"

"Yes," he said emphatically. He glanced at the cab driver and looked at her again, "Can you find a way to get here?"

"Yes, yes, let's do that. Same day as today. Right here."

He embraced her urgently and pulled her for another kiss. He opened the door and smiled at her, "I'll see you in a year, Monica"

She returned his smile. "I'll see you too, Chandler."

The car started again, she followed it until it disappeared at the end of the street and turned on the left corner before Westminster Bridge.

The cab driver looked at the mirror and studied the young man's expression, it had a mix of sadness, relief, and a fading smile.

"Did you enjoy your stay in London, sir?" he asked.

"Yes."

The car drove on the right side of the River. Once he felt in control of himself again and awareness returned to him, Chandler thought about the sequence of events from the moment he got on a train to London, the places they've been, that he could see now through the window. They remained the same but felt different. He couldn't help feeling an immense surge of wonder at how, in such a low time and when he least expected it, something so richly satisfying came into his life. The most overpowering emotional experience he lived through.

They had inhabited a space in the city together at the same time, in a moment of their lives where everything was supposed to be possible but looked out of reach. Their paths scarcely intertwined, but it was enough to know this was a happy, divine, burning incident given only once. And they might find love again, with something or someone else, but because of its very nature, nothing could ever come close to this.

Was there a silver lining to it? He wondered. It was a surprise to him, this feeling of being truly, intrinsically heartbroken for the first time. It felt like the universe's way of welcoming him in. Love, happiness, loss, heartbreak, shared experiences that made people feel less alone. He felt the joy and ache that comes from knowing exactly how one can fall in love with the world, through an unexpected encounter, in a foreign place that reconnected him with genuine aliveness for the first time, in a long time … or ever.

The revelation softened his features. He realized he was part of something, that he belonged, that he had found a place in the world.

He caught sight of the sun hanging above the city, still rising, and passing through these streets, he recalled every detail. The oppressive history of London became decades and centuries, poverty and wealth, wars and peace, grace and vulgarity, a kaleidoscope of time. Cathedrals, Greek temples, columns, porticos, Georgian brick, residuals of great battles and great fires, but it was still there in all its glory. It was resilient and tenacious, proud and oh so beautiful. Just like her.

In London, there was life everywhere. She was everywhere.

Monica compelled herself to breathe in, breathe out, before starting to walk and get to the hotel. She walked over Westminster Bridge, a strange feeling settling over her, with the piece of paper he gave her tightly secured in her hand. Head high despite the tears threatening her, praying that her movements didn't look as wooden as they felt, she felt foreign in the city for the first time since she arrived. Chandler felt like home. The way his face would scrunch up when he smiled, his humor and his hands on her skin, were the home she ached for and had been missing for weeks.

London would never be quite like the image she had formed in her mind.

She had been with her fair share of men before. Some she lost, others she left. But never had she ever let herself feel the intricacies of love beyond what was required.

She always numbed up in the aftermath. Moved on quickly. But now, perhaps because it had happened so fast, so unexpectedly, not leaving her time to build up walls — because of a time and a place, and because of him, she didn't want to numb up, and she even found it through the tears. That feeling. Almost fascinating. What movies, people, books talked about when they were talking about love, found and lost, brilliant and painful. What happened when heartbreak happened.

And she smiled. Months ago, a stolen credit card meant she got to witness someone impersonating her and wondering if she would ever live her best life. At that time, it was about doing as much as she could, never leaving a minute left to waste. Throwing out worries, and living frivolously, seizing the moment. By the end of that day, she thought it simply wasn't her. But today, she had lived her best life, and it wasn't about doing things. It was about feeling, experiencing them. Who got to experience love, and yes, heartbreak like that? And it was all hers. Hers and Chandler's. In their own universe. On their own timezone. Their London time.

At the end of the bridge, she couldn't help herself. She looked over the River, and at the letter. She made her decision and made peace with the cost of experiencing love in its fullest, richest form.

...

Monica,

I know we said we wouldn't write to each other, not exchange addresses or phone numbers. I will respect that promise. But I felt terribly inarticulate when I said goodbye, you said I was good with words, I'm not so sure, words don't feel enough right now.

I wanted to tell you how important this day was for me.

I hope you know the depth of my gratitude for the joy, the laughter, the love we have shared. These are the things I want you to remember, for this day to live on in your memories of happiness as it will live in mine forever. I trust that your heart knows it with the certainty that mine does.

I don't want to wish you a good life, because I know your life will be great, and it will be happy. And I am certain you will get everything you want.

Thank you, once again, and for the last time, for elevating my life and illuminating my heart.

Love,

Chandler.

...

June 1998

After another excruciating lunch shift, Monica changed into her street clothes in the locker room. She tugged on a t-shirt and jeans and left the workday behind her, relieved to turn off —partially— the cooking portion of her brain for the rest of the day.

Once in the subway, however, lost in her thoughts, her eyes wandered until they fell on an elderly couple. A familiar feeling came rushing back, not exactly jealousy but a twinge of longing, and dissatisfaction.

It was a recurring feature of the last few months, a hollowness would hit her in the chest at certain times.

She avoided the subject in the company of friends and family. Thankfully, they didn't seem to notice the evasion. The dry-spell — or a voluntary dry-spell, as she convinced herself, because she had a career to craft first and foremost and no time to waste. She finally had the job she wanted since culinary school. Head chef of an Italian restaurant; being in charge, at long last, of a stainless steel kitchen, blending ingredients, playing with flavors, shaping a menu and savoring the process.

But she couldn't help it.

Yes, she was supposed to be better than this. She didn't need someone, she didn't have to be with someone, it wasn't the stigma or desperation, or even the loneliness. She had loving friends and family around her.

It was possibly the disillusionment of past relationships. Wondering if there was maybe, or definitely something wrong with her.

She wanted to feel like she wasn't already spent emotionally. That her romanticism wasn't depleted by two serious relationships that ended on relatively good terms. Good terms. That fact made it worse. There was always something missing — different goals in life, different priorities, always the deal-breaking problems, the ones for which love itself wasn't enough to overcome them.

More importantly, she wanted to know if she let go of her chance, for the right guy, on that one day and one night in London, almost 3 years ago.

And then a year later, when she couldn't make it to London to meet Chandler again because life happened: her dad, hospitalized a few days before the meeting date, Ross's second marriage, crumbling a few months before that, and a former best friend from her childhood showing up to her door, needing a home after an aborted wedding ceremony.

Maybe there was a pattern there, of needing to save and take care of people, but she didn't have time to think about it.

It was a slippery slope whenever she thought about that day. She tried to suppress it and distract herself, but her attempts were always in vain. She could never forget, or more specifically, forget him. Even now, she was wondering what he was doing. Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, she was constantly wondering what he was doing.

She left the subway at Christopher's Street Station, in a throng of New Yorkers, rushing through the summer heat, and made her way to her apartment on Bedford Street.

When she opened the door she wasn't surprised to find Phoebe sitting at the table.

"Hey Mon, here is yesterday's Post if you want to check that review of your restaurant."

Monica greeted her and headed to the kitchen, taking out a frosted chicken from the fridge. "Oh come on, who left dishes in the sink?" she asked with an exasperated sigh.

"Don't look at me, I'm not your roommate anymore."

She sat at the table with Phoebe when Rachel emerged from her bedroom.

"I got a date!" Her roommate exclaimed, with the phone in her hand. She headed straight to the bathroom, without elaborating.

The girls shared a smile. Phoebe went to the couch and Monica opened a bottle of water, turning the pages of the newspaper looking for the food and dining section just as Ross came in with Ben. "Hey Mon, are you still on for dinner with Mom and Dad on Friday?" he asked.

He didn't get an answer from his sister. When he turned his attention from his son to her, he caught her frozen face.

"Mon? You okay?"

Monica wasn't moving. She wasn't sure she was breathing. While turning the pages, she thought she recognized a face. She turned them back and found Chandler's picture. Ross and Phoebe turned to her inquisitively. Not wanting to worry them, she stammered before closing the paper. "Em, yeah, I'm okay … Friday night, right. I just remembered I forgot something at the restaurant. I—I better make a call."

She took the paper and headed quickly to her room. Ross and Phoebe shared a skeptic look when they noticed she didn't take the phone with her.

In her room, Monica tried to calm down, sitting on the edge of the bed, and opened the paper to find that page again.

NEW YORK POST - ENTERTAINMENT | June 26th, 1998 Issue

"BOXING DAY" at THE LUCILLE LORTEL THEATER

Joseph Tribbiani, an Italian-American actor previously known for playing Dr. Drake Ramoray on the daytime soap Days Of Our Lives, plays VICTOR, and Kate Miller, Yale-educated Broadway actress, plays ADRIENNE, in this play written by the author Jennifer Banberry, known for deciphering and dissecting the psyche of the American middle class, and directed by Marshall Talmant.

She quickly skipped the review and found the picture at the end of the page. There was Chandler, in a black and white photo, smiling with a slight smirk and posing with a few other people. She read the picture's caption alongside the final paragraph.

Below picture, actor Joseph Tribbiani (Center) photographed with a friend (Left) alongside co-star Kate Miller (right) and director Marshall Talmant (far right) at the opening night of BOXING DAY. Performing until June 27th.

She felt overwhelmed by an instant rush of conflicting emotions.

Drawing huge breaths, as if she just came up for air after being oxygen-deprived, she opened her closet, found an orange light sweater — and from a drawer, she took out the receipt of the last-minute canceled flight, dated July 14th, 1996 from New York (JFK) to London (LHR).

Once the audience started to leave, Chandler headed to the door leading to the backstage area. He made his way to the greenroom where the director and the production staff were, and sat in a chair waiting for the actors to get out of makeup and dress.

It had been the show's last representation and Chandler was there to cheer up Joey after a bad review the play received. Chandler knew how hard Joey worked for this part, how important for him it was to be taken seriously and not be perceived as just a soap actor. He knew his friend needed him for comfort, and how much he could use his favorite sandwich.

There would be a wrap-up party after, with the whole crew. He pondered staying, but truthfully he had no desire to. He wanted to go back to his hotel room and turn in early. Maybe take a walk before going to sleep. He wandered in the streets of New York every night since he got there, especially since Joey was busy dating one of his co-stars.

It haunted him. For a whole week, he thought he saw her. At the corner of a street, in the waiting line of a coffee shop, or leaving a subway station — any woman who looked remotely like her, until she disappeared or turned. He knew he was most likely imagining her, but there was still a possibility.

She lived there somewhere, after all. One out of a million and a half souls in a tiny island. Unless she moved.

He pictured what their meeting would be like during the days preceding his New York trip. Would he get angry? Angry that she didn't show up 2 years before and he did, that he fled all the way from Los Angeles to London only to find out she wasn't there, that he never felt more pathetic and sad in his life?

Or, would he lie, and tell her he never went because she didn't, that he tried to hate her for it but couldn't, that he couldn't even stand the thought of making her feel guilty?

He would tell her how he'd give anything to go back in time, get her name, her address, her phone number— give it a try, work out something, do anything. It would have spared him the heartbreaks that followed, the betrayals he suffered all the while deep down, he was waiting and hoping for her.

Would he tell her how embarrassed he was that he wasn't any better than 3 years ago? He still had that same soul-sucking job, he never really quit smoking, and on the day he came back from London after the failed reunion, he went straight back in the arms of Janice. His life was still filled with the same old patterns: avoidance, insecurity, low self-esteem, a latent commitment-phobia cleverly masking his really wanting commitment.

Would he tell her how just a year ago, he risked the most important relationship in his life for a woman he imagined to be the miracle fix to his problems? How it backfired spectacularly?

Granted, he learned some lessons, but he didn't feel he was better, or worthy of her.

Monica would be better, even better than she was. She just was that kind of person, she wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than perfect, and would conquer anything she set her mind to.

And he wasn't any better because she was the only person that made him want to be better.

One of the production staff brought him out of his thoughts, informing him the actors would take a while longer to be out.

He needed some fresh air, so he went outside and looked for a forgotten cigarette in his coat. There wasn't one. He sat by the sidewalk, taking in the night and the warm summer breeze. He heard footsteps behind him, maybe Joey wouldn't go to the party after all.

He was about to get up, he had left the sandwich inside the theater, when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder that made him sit again.

A friendly, gentle touch, far too gentle to be Joey's hand.

"There you are."

He froze at the words he heard. He couldn't even process their meaning, too caught up by the voice. That voice. He tried to preserve the memory of that voice for years, fighting the power of time and absence, but senses and memories are a funny thing. The moment he heard it, Chandler had no doubt. He'd recognize it everywhere.

A feather-soft voice, dropped to a whisper but with that hint of thinness and ear-piercing intensity characteristic of her.

Excitement tripped through him as he turned. The grandiose ideas and clever words he planned to tell her escaped him. His heart jackhammered at the sight of her. Monica was standing there, towering over him. She was smiling, her hair swept back in a bun, wearing a summery red dress, with a glint flickering in her eyes full of wonder.

He met her gaze, he was ready to get lost in them again. Chandler knew. Her blue eyes were the only ones he wanted to get lost in, from now on and forever.

He sensed her agitation and worry mixed with anticipation. She was wondering how he felt, what he'd say, or what he'd do.

He stood up, took a sharp breath, and once he felt more confident, he returned her smile.

"It's really you."

A/N:

The Magnetic Fields - All My Little Words (1999).

Thank you for reading and reviewing, you're awesome!

I hope you enjoyed the ending, let me know what you think! The epilogue will be posted in a week.

A special thanks to Babatomyfriends, for the invaluable feedback and help.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays!