After five years, a meeting in the middle
Five years.
It was strange how the years could stretch out so long and yet, feel like nothing at all. I stood at the window of my apartment — a high-rise with a sweeping view of the city. I'd come so far, built myself from the ground up. An independent woman. Strong. Self-sufficient. I no longer needed anyone to complete me, but every now and then, I thought about him.
His words always lingered, the ones he said that night, when I had stormed away, unsure of everything:
"I'm leaving you 'cause you want, but remember who I am. Don't forget me. When you want to meet me, you can contact me. Until then, keep shining, Terra."
I couldn't forget those words. And no matter how many years passed, no matter how much I accomplished, there was a small part of me that wanted to hear them again — from him. That part of mine was still his, still clinging to the hope that we hadn't truly let go of each other.
The phone buzzed in my pocket, snapping me from my thoughts. I grabbed it — a text from a client, another project I'd landed, another win. Yet somehow, the excitement felt empty. It was always business, never personal. The world kept spinning, but Bright had been left behind, just like the pieces of myself I couldn't quite piece together.
Meanwhile, Bright
…Five years later…
He sat in the corner of a trendy cafe, glancing at his watch for the millionth time. His life had shifted dramatically. What had started as a small business venture had turned into something much larger. He was successful. He was respected. People knew who he was now.
But there was something missing. Someone.
He couldn't shake her. The memories of her, of their love, of the words he said. He told himself, over and over, that he had made the right choice to let her go — to leave her behind for her own good. After all, he did say she could contact him when she was ready, when she wanted to see him again.
But what if that time never came?
He picked up his phone, scrolling past work emails, before landing on a text from her. The one he had saved in his contacts. It had been five years since they'd last spoken, but he couldn't bring himself to delete her.
The message read: "I'm doing well. Just wanted you to know. Still thinking of you."
He stared at it, the words running through his mind over and over. There was something in the message — a slight tremor of hope, a little piece of her that was still there, buried deep beneath everything that had happened. He sighed, setting the phone down, and ran a hand through his hair.
Back to Terra.
That night, after a long day of meetings, I sat in my room staring at my phone. I thought about the text from Bright, the one I had never sent, but had written a thousand times in my mind. I thought about how much I had changed in five years. I had everything, but there was always an empty space. And maybe, just maybe, that space was for him.
With shaking fingers, I opened a new message, the cursor blinking in front of me. I paused, unsure, before typing:
"I remember you. I remember everything. Let's meet."
I didn't think about it long. I hit send, closed my eyes, and waited.
The next day.
Bright sat back in his chair when his phone buzzed again. When he saw her name, his heart skipped. Slowly, he opened the message.
It was simple.
"I remember you. I remember everything. Let's meet."
And for the first time in five years, Bright smiled. The waiting, the distance, the uncertainty — it had all been worth it.
He replied simply:
"I'll be there."
They hadn't forgotten. Not really.
They were about to meet again, after all these years, but this time, it wasn't for closure. It was for something else. Something new. Something real.