October 18, 2024

It’s three years from now, and I’m sitting in a coffee shop waiting for you.

I’m shifting in the wooden chair, tapping my fingers on the table in front of me. The light patter of rain hits the window to my left, the chatter of the coffee shop filling the air, and my gaze is fixed on the double doors. My hair has more silver streaks now—since you last saw me. I still wear the same pale brown glasses. I’m in a light short-sleeve shirt that doesn’t hide the familiar scars on my elbows and hands —the ones you’ve come to know.

When the doors open under the neon exit sign, your eyes scan the room, landing on mine after a beat. You’re in your black puffer jacket with a wrinkled red flannel underneath, droplets of rain still resting on your shoulders. Your curly hair falls just above your chest, a touch longer than you usually keep it. You walk toward me with careful, deliberate strides, your boots landing softly on the floor, and I feel my mouth curve at the corners.

As you pull out the chair in front of me, its legs scrape against the wooden floor. Before you say a word, you’re chuckling—your shoulders bouncing slightly. Your eyes come to life, just like I remember. There’s a knowing that passes between us.

The steam of my drink curls in the air between us, and we talk about the superficial—the weather, the traffic, work. Just a few sentences in, and we find that old rhythm we never quite lost, even after all these years. There’s an ease that settles into our conversation, like muscle memory; like knowing which floorboards creak in a house. Your voice is still soft and warm, like honey.

You ask about my mom, saying things like, “When was the last time you flew down to see her?” Your words are intentional, your questions curious and mindful. You’re half smiling when you ask if I’ve written a sad-girl song about you yet. We dance around the elephant in the room—until we don’t. You’re quiet for a moment, then ask if I’m seeing someone. I smile gently and tell you yes, that I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. I tell you she’s my best friend, that things just make sense between us in ways they never did with you and me. I tell you that I’ve seen you around with your new partner, too, and joke that she looks a little like me. I tell you that I’m so incredibly happy for you, that I’ve missed seeing you smile, and that I can tell she brings out the best in you.

“I’m sorry for the way I left things,” I say.

Your eyes soften, and suddenly we’re back there—sitting in the waiting room of the hospital that never seemed to end. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over us, painting the walls in dullness.

You were the first person I wanted to call after the accident, even though we weren’t together anymore.

I remember how the palms of your hands rested over mine as I sat in that wheelchair, my head and heart heavy from exhaustion. I told you that I was so grateful you came, that having you there brought me comfort. But your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes; there was something guarded, something that pulled inward, a knowing that the closeness we had was already unraveling.

Back in the coffee shop, as I apologize, the clouds outside gently part, sunlight weaving its way through, hugging the cracks in the wet pavement. You glance at the clock above us, and after a long exhale, you tell me it was good to see me.

We linger by the double doors of the coffee shop, a beat intentionally drawn out. My hands are fumbling in my pockets, as I ask if we could ever be friends. Your eyebrows knit together briefly, your gaze drifting to the cars whisking by. You shift your weight, then look back at me, your voice soft, “Maybe not, Jen, but it really was good to see you. I hope you take care of yourself.” Your shoulders sag, and you let out another exhale, your eyes cast downward.

I nod, swallowing the nails in my throat, letting the reality of your words settle in. As you turn to walk away, I stand there for a moment, watching your silhouette fade into the distance.

In three years’ time, I will still think about how love can exist in the spaces we leave behind; how, even if unspoken, it lingers—just as real, just as meaningful. I imagine running into you again, feeling the familiar static that fills every room you’re in. I imagine telling you, “It’s really good to see you,” and every time, I mean it. We can move through this world with this shared invisible string and live in the reality of nothing more than the occasional tugs.

In three years’ time, maybe we won’t be part of each other’s stories anymore, and maybe that’s okay. Love doesn’t always need a presence to be felt. And for now, that can be enough.