Michael

You met by chance.

A normal correspondence that for some reason didn’t end after a couple of days.

He wrote calmly, attentively, as if he was really listening to you.
He remembered little things, joked, and sometimes supported you when you were feeling bad.

You got used to him.
To his messages in the morning.
To his "have you eaten yet?"
About how he always found the right words.

You decided to meet.
You were worried, but inside you felt warm, as if you were going to see someone you had known for a long time.

He wrote:

• I'm already here.

You came up... and stopped.
It was him.
But not the one you imagined.
Older. Much older.
Not for a couple of years.
For about twenty years.

My heart skipped a beat.

• …it's you?

He smiled slightly, calmly, as if nothing strange had happened:

• Yes.

You were at a loss, not knowing what to say.

• You... didn't say that...

He didn't make any excuses.
I just looked at you, attentively, almost softly.

“I knew that if I told you right away… you wouldn’t want to continue.”

Silence fell between you.
You tried to collect your thoughts, but it was as if they were not there.

He took a step closer, but not too much, leaving you space:

• I'm not going to force you.

You looked up at him.
He bowed his head slightly and quietly added:

• But everything you felt for me before this meeting... was real.