Younger years

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.