Nostalgia

The last time we were met, we were at the in-betweens of our lives. He was 25 going on 26, brimming with youthful ambition and aggressive drive. I was 1x going on 2x, struggling to patch pieces of my heart back together, and becoming way too cynical for my own good.

It was a might have been, but it never happened. There may have been a spark, a smouldering undercurrent, but we were both tied down by feelings of the past – he with the lady two years older; me with the man 8 years older – which we made present for ourselves, so him and me, our future was sealed before we even realised it.

Forward to years later. He spotted me in the crowd and waved at an unsuspecting me; we barely recognised each other, yet we did. I wasn’t sure to greet him with a warm old-friend hug or a formal handshake, so settled for an uncertain smile instead. We sat down to chat, but packing so many years into a couple of hours was difficult for us to re-know each other, have we ever really known each other anyway? Not that there weren’t any chances to, for each minute was a chance by itself, but we didn’t make the time. Each day I could have picked up my phone and drop him a message, but I didn’t make the time. Every night he could have replied my mails, wrote a personal one, but he didn’t make the time, so him and me, our future was sealed before we even realised it.

So there we sat, facing each other across the coffee table, the million chances have already passed us by, quietly stolen from us without even the barest hint of whisper. Because we were too lax, we grew up, we got older, we moved on, so him and me, our future was sealed before we even realised it.

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