Almost, Always

1

It started with a smile in a crowded room.

Lena saw him across the gallery, standing in front of a painting she didn’t particularly like—something abstract and loud—but he looked at it like it meant everything. She couldn’t help but watch him watching it, and then, as if he felt her gaze, he turned and met her eyes.

He smiled.

She smiled back.

That was the beginning.


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2

His name was Theo. He was a photographer who spent most of his time capturing forgotten corners of the city—the rusted fire escapes, the empty cafes, the way the light poured through broken windows. Lena was a writer, an editor at a literary magazine, always chasing deadlines and drinking too much coffee.

Their paths shouldn't have crossed, but they did. Again and again. At bookstores, mutual friends' parties, late-night poetry readings.

They’d sit next to each other, never too close. Talk for hours about everything and nothing. Laugh until they couldn’t breathe. Sometimes he’d walk her home. Sometimes she’d walk him to the train.

But nothing ever happened.

They were both always almost.


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3

Once, during winter, he called her at midnight.

“I can’t sleep,” he said. “Come outside.”

She didn’t hesitate.

They walked through the snow-covered streets, her in slippers and a coat thrown over pajamas, him in his old army-green jacket with one broken zipper. They didn't speak much. They didn’t need to.

At the corner of 14th and Pine, he stopped. “I think I love you,” he said suddenly.

She looked at him. She wanted to say it back. She felt it too.

But something in her held back. “You think?” she asked, trying to laugh.

He smiled sadly. “Yeah. I think.”

She didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t either.


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4

The years passed.

They each dated other people. She met someone stable—a kind doctor who loved jazz and routine. Theo disappeared for a while, traveling through South America with a photography grant. They emailed sometimes. Short notes. “This place reminds me of you.” “Wish you were here.” “Just saw a girl who laughed like you.”

When he returned, they got coffee.

It was like no time had passed.

She was engaged then.

He congratulated her with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.


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5

Her engagement didn’t last. She didn’t tell him why.

He didn’t ask.

They sat on a bench overlooking the river one autumn afternoon, silence stretching between them like a bridge neither dared cross.

“I thought you’d be married by now,” he said.

“I thought you’d have vanished for good,” she replied.

“I tried,” he said quietly.

She looked at him then. Really looked.

“Why didn’t we ever…” she began, then stopped.

He didn’t finish the sentence either.


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6

There was always something.

Bad timing. New jobs. Old fears. Distance. Doubt.

And yet, they were always there—on the edges of each other’s lives, orbiting like moons too afraid to collide.

She helped edit his first photo book. He took portraits of her mother before she passed. She called him when she got promoted. He called her when he sold his work to a museum.

They were each other’s first call, last thought, the ones who knew the stories behind the smiles.

But never the kiss behind the gaze.

Never the more they never named.


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7

One night, years later, she found herself back at the gallery where it all began.

The same painting still hung there.

And again, Theo stood in front of it.

Only this time, he turned before she even approached, as if he already knew she was there.

“Hey,” he said, and smiled.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“I always hoped you’d come back here,” he said.

She stepped closer. “I never really left.”

And he looked at her—not like she was a memory, or a possibility, but like she was real. Present. Here.

She reached for his hand.

He didn’t hesitate.

And finally—finally—their fingers entwined like it had always meant to happen.


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8

Later, under the same sky they had walked beneath a hundred times without touching, she lay beside him, heart quiet, body warm against his.

“What changed?” he asked softly.

“I got tired of almost,” she replied. “Didn’t you?”

He kissed her then.

Slowly.

Like it had taken a decade to reach this moment.

Maybe it had.


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9

They weren’t perfect. Love rarely is.

They still argued about coffee beans, forgot birthdays, got overwhelmed with work and memories and worry.

But they also learned.

To stay.

To speak.

To love out loud.

And every so often, when she caught him looking at her like a painting only he understood, she’d ask, “Do you still think you love me?”

And every time, he’d say, “No.”

Then he’d kiss her again and whisper, “Now I know.”


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End.