Painted like a dream.
[Short story]
"Just a caramel macchiato, please."
It was the scent of him - and perhaps, his voice - that brought everything back. He was in a business suit beside her, placing his order. As she looked down, she saw his dress shoes.
And the most illogical thought came to her, that it was really him.
She had held it in but her hands were shaking. She had seen visions and fantasies. But now he was beside her in person; she was finally witnessing him painted by the dream he had long conversated to her with hope reflected in his eyes.
Of course, I remember.
Suddenly, his arms grazed hers but she managed to stay quiet.
It was the group of children stampeding across them - causing him to elbow her harder - that made her gasp. She covered her mouth instantly in attempt to remain silent.
Oh no, please don't look at me.
"I'm sorry-"
Shit, okay. Please don't recognise me. Please.
She couldn't speak, so neither of them moved. They were two people caught up in a rushing crowd, and the only two that were not moving.
They hadn't even noticed their orders were already on the bench in front of them.
"It's you."
Oh god, his fucking voice.
"You still come by here?"
"Y-yes."
"It's been 10 years."
But the memories that existed in this place make me happy. "Y-you've counted?"
"I did."
Silence.
"But then again, it seems that so have you."
Silence.
He chuckled, "I heard you order coffee."
Silence.
"But you hated it."
"S-so did you."
"Remember when we used to drink coffee and wear fancy clothes; acting like grown-ups?"
"You remembered?"
He raised an eyebrow, "So have you."
"Oh god."
"Hm?"
"I've really missed you."
YOU ARE READING
「 finish line 」
Short StoryDear Charlie. I think I was more in love with the image of what we could have been. . . . . ligne d'arrivée ⟶ translation: finish line a line marking the end of a race.
