The Tug

He thought of her on a morning when the light came in sideways, thin and forgiving. A song she once loved had drifted through the café speakers, and before the chorus, he’d already typed her name. Then he stopped. The message box stayed open like a held breath.

They’d once been so easy together. Jokes half-spoken, finished by the other. Whole afternoons spent on borrowed time, their laughter echoing down stairwells. He remembered her leaning on a car door, saying something about never losing touch—then waving as though she didn’t quite believe it.

Years passed. Cities, jobs, partners. When they met again, it was over coffee that tasted mostly of nerves. The words came in fits and starts. He noticed her glancing at her watch; she noticed him polishing a sentence too long. They were both climbing the hill toward the place where their voices used to meet, but the air was thinner there now.

Later, he met another old friend—someone he hadn’t seen in even longer. With that one, no climb. Just laughter right out of the gate, like muscle memory. The years between them folded like pages pressed together.

Walking home, he thought about that difference. Some people live in the same layer of your life, no matter how far you roam. Others belong to a version of you that’s gone quiet. The tug is what you feel when both layers meet—the ache of wanting the old rhythm, knowing it’s already changed.

By dusk, the message box was still empty. He closed it without guilt. Outside, the sky had turned that river-blue that keeps its own time. Two boats once tethered, now floating side by side, letting the current decide if they’d meet again.

WE&P by: EZorrillaMc&Co.