The words didn't just mean "it’s been a long time." They meant: I missed your sister’s wedding. I wasn’t there when your father passed. I didn't see you learn how to be okay without me.
The air in the cafe was thick with the scent of roasted beans and something much older—expectation. I checked my watch for the third time in five minutes. Across the table, the chair remained empty, a silent witness to the decade that had slipped through our fingers. tanto_tiempo
When the bell above the door finally chimed, the sound felt like a crack in a glass dam. You walked in, looking exactly the same and entirely different. The way you tilted your head to scan the room was a ghost of a gesture I used to know by heart. The words didn't just mean "it’s been a long time
You smiled, and for the first time in a decade, the dust began to settle. "At the beginning," you said. "Or maybe just at yesterday." The air in the cafe was thick with
I nodded, unable to find my voice. The "so much time" wasn't just a measurement of days; it was a physical weight sitting on the table between our coffee cups, invisible and heavy as lead. We weren't just two people meeting for a drink; we were two strangers trying to find the pieces of ourselves we had left in each other's pockets ten years ago. "Tanto tiempo," I finally agreed. "Where do we even start?"