Years have a strange way of softening memory.
The sharp edges dull. The moments blur. But certain people never quite fade.

She hadn’t thought about him in a long time—or at least that’s what she told herself. Life had become full again: new faces, new cities, a steady rhythm that left little room for what-ifs. But sometimes, when the light hit a window just right or a familiar song played in a café, he’d return. Not as a person. As a feeling.

One afternoon, she found herself back in the same city. It wasn’t planned. Maybe nothing about them ever was. She was walking down a quiet street, coat pulled tight, coffee in hand, when she heard someone call her name.

It was him.

He looked older now, and she imagined she did too. But there was something in his eyes—something unchanged, something she’d know anywhere.

“I thought you’d left for good,” he said.

“I thought so too.”

They stood there for a while, unsure of what to do with the space between them. Then he smiled, small but familiar. “There’s a place around the corner,” he said. “Still makes the best coffee in the city.”

She nodded. “Lead the way.”

Inside, everything felt familiar—the same chipped cups, the same faint hum of conversation, the same comfort. They sat across from each other, and time folded in on itself.

“So,” he said softly, “how many years has it been?”

“Enough,” she replied. “But not enough to forget.”

He nodded, looking down for a moment. “I didn’t call because I thought you deserved someone who didn’t hesitate.”

“And I didn’t stay because I thought you’d already found someone who didn’t leave,” she said.

Their eyes met, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

They talked for hours. Not to fill the silence—but to remember it. He told her about the things he’d built and lost. She told him about the places she’d been, the faces she’d forgotten, the small moments that somehow still reminded her of him.

When they finally stepped outside, the light had changed. The sky glowed in that familiar amber hue—the one that had followed them through every season of almost.

He reached for her hand, not in a question, but in understanding.

“Maybe we needed the years,” he said.

She smiled. “Maybe we needed to learn how to stay.”

They walked together, their pace slow, quiet, unhurried. Not young anymore, not uncertain, just ready.

And as the light faded, for once, neither of them looked away.