Another life

In another life, I’m the barista. He’s the regular, the one who comes in at the same time each day, always ordering the same drink. I learn his name from his cup, from the way he smiles and nods as I hand it to him. He lingers by the counter just long enough that I wonder if he’ll say something, but he never does. It’s a routine I look forward to, even though we stay just two strangers connected by quiet, wordless moments.

In another life, we’re strangers on a train. He sits across from me, looking out the window, lost in thought, and I try not to stare. We don’t speak, but our eyes meet in the glass. For a moment, I think he might say something, but the train pulls to a stop, and he stands up, grabbing his bag. Our hands brush as he moves past, a small touch that lingers too long to be forgotten. The door closes, and he’s gone.

In another life, we’re childhood friends. He lives down the street, the one I’d bike to after school, sharing everything from homework complaints to wild, silly dreams. We’re there for each other through it all—our lives intertwining, not because we chose it, but because it just happened that way. As the years pass, he drifts in and out, but he’s always there, someone familiar, like a well-worn memory. Even if we lose touch, we never lose that quiet understanding of who we are to each other.

In another life, he’s the voice on the other end of the phone, the one I fall asleep to every night, knowing he’s still there when I wake up. We’re more than friends but less than lovers—something undefined, but it’s enough. He stays in my life, just like he always said he would, and I never have to wonder what happened to him. There’s always that comforting presence, a voice I know by heart.

And then there’s this life, where he was the closest thing to real I ever had, but he’s gone. I’m stuck here, caught in the empty space he left behind, haunted by the lives we’ll never get to live.