"Almost"

They met in the gentle chaos of autumn - not as planned, but as some stories began without permission. Claire was returning a book to the campus library late as usual, half-finished coffee in hand and her mind full of everything, except the moment she was in. Just then he bumps into Jamie, who is walking out, earbuds in, to the world's amazement.

His coffee spilled onto his shirt.

“Oh my God—I’m so sorry,” Claire gasped, her eyes widening.

Jamie blinked and looked at the mess, then smiled. “Well, that’s one way to start a conversation.”

She laughed nervously. He handed her a napkin he had in his coat pocket. They exchanged names, some odd laughs, and something else neither of them could name at the time—something electric and inexplicable. That was the beginning.

Their relationship was quiet. There were no fireworks, just warmth. They began to bump into each other more often - eventually intentionally. Long walks after class turned into late-night conversations about books, childhood fears, and dreams, which they shared with each other. Jamie loved the way Claire talked, as if she were discovering the world as she went. Claire listened to Jamie like she loved him, as if she were collecting every word to stay safe.

They never said they were in love.

Not even when Jamie tucked Claire's hair behind her ear during a late night movie. Not when Claire stayed up all night to help Jamie study for his final, even though she had a test of her own the next morning. Not even when they're holding hands and smiling under a table in a crowded cafe, as if the world is quietly leaning in their favor.

But there they were.

And they both knew that.

The thing was - the time. It's always time.

Jamie had been offered an internship in another state. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Claire had signed up for a semester abroad in Paris, something she had dreamed of since she was thirteen. People make promises when they're afraid — they'll keep in touch, nothing will change, love will wait.

But love doesn’t always wait. Not when real life is getting louder.

Weeks turn to months. The message gets smaller. The phone keeps dropping. Time zones became barriers. So did fatigue. And silence. They never fought. There was no betrayal. Just distance — the cruel, quiet kind that doesn't break things, only dulls them.

One night, Claire texted him: “Do you think we were really something?”

Jamie stared at the screen for a long time. Then he typed:

“I think we were everything. Not at the right time.”

Then they never spoke again.

Years passed. Claire became a writer, living in a city full of stories but never writing theirs. Jamie worked in marketing, climbing stairs, filling his apartment with things that looked nice but never felt like his own.

Occasionally, they still saw each other online — a photo tagged in a group, a birthday memento. They never liked or commented. Just stared for a while, thinking.

Then, many years later, one spring morning, Claire walked into a coffee shop in a city where she no longer lived, and there she was. Jamie. Reading a book she had once recommended.

She froze. He looked up. Their eyes met.

And everything came back quickly.

“Hey,” she said, as if no time had passed.

“Hey,” he smiled, sitting down next to her without asking.

They talked. Laughed. They shared updates that felt like footnotes to their predecessors. No one asked if the other person was seeing anyone. Nobody mentions the past.

And when it was time to leave, Jamie looked at her and said, “You were always my “what-if.”

Claire shook her head, the smile not reaching her eyes. “And you almost were mine.”

They hugged — tight, warm, final.

And walked in the opposite direction.