We were never anything dramatic—
just a boy and a girl
sitting too close on the curb
while the sun sank behind houses
that felt permanent back then.
You knew how I took my silence,
when to fill it
and when to let it breathe.
I knew the way you smiled
before you laughed,
like the world still surprised you.
There was no language for what we were.
No promises.
No fear of endings.
Only afternoons that stretched forever
and the certainty
that tomorrow would look the same.
We thought time moved politely—
step by step,
asking permission before it changed us.
We didn’t notice it stealing moments
while we were busy growing taller,
busier,
braver in ways that required distance.
Now your name shows up
like an old song
I don’t remember learning,
and I wonder when
“always” became “once,”
when the simplest love I’ve ever known
became something I forgot
to miss.
Somewhere,
there’s a version of us still laughing,
still unaware
that nothing stays small enough
to keep forever.
And I hope—
if time was kinder to you than it was to me—
you remember me
not as someone you lost,
but as someone
who was there
when life was still easy to love.