Well-trodden Footsteps
by Claire Cabral
Photo by Carlos Pernalete
You take my breath away. Literally. I don’t know how you do it. We’ve been hiking half an hour already and you haven't even broken a sweat, meanwhile I think I’m dying. This is so far from being my thing, but when you asked me to come with you, you smiled like…
Besides, I always said I’d catch the next one and I won't let you make me a liar.
Little bits of granola keep falling from your mouth. You sit on this ant-ridden log like the whole mountain is your living room. I watch as you fold the wrapper so carefully and tuck it into your backpack. I want to hate you for leaving me. I settle for hating myself instead.
You start to speed up. Which is absurd, because I feel like we’re already going way, way too fast. We’re almost there, you tell me.
This is the place. You’ve told me about it before. You weren’t lying; it’s beautiful. You grab my hand and lead me to the edge of the water. When we sit, you turn to me. I’m going to miss this place. I’m going to miss you. I know I could grovel, beg you to stay.
I think about kissing you. I’ve thought about kissing you so many times.
Instead I look away. At the rocks, at the water you love so much, anywhere but your face. The mountain's always gonna be here, I say.
Claire Cabral’s “Well-trodden Footsteps” received third place in the BCPW’s 2025 Flash Fiction Contest. Claire attends Etobicoke Collegiate Institute.