The Distance Between Us Was Closer Than I Ever Realized
Until one winter night unraveled it.
My car gave out without warning, coughing once before going completely still. The irony didn’t hit me immediately—only the cold did. Then I looked up and realized exactly where I was. His building. Snow gathered along the sidewalk, streetlights blinking like they couldn’t decide whether to stay on. I sat there gripping the wheel, stunned, as if the city itself had nudged me into a corner I’d spent years avoiding.
I grabbed my phone to call roadside assistance. That was the sensible choice. But as I scrolled, my finger paused over a name I had never removed. I stared at it longer than I meant to. Every excuse rose up at once. Don’t bother him. Don’t reopen things. Handle it yourself.
He picked up immediately.
No hesitation. No confusion. Just my name, spoken the way he used to say it—familiar, unguarded. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. When I finally explained where I was, my voice felt thinner than usual. There was a brief pause, long enough for old fears to rush in. Then he said simply, “Don’t move. I’ll be there.”
