As If Time Were Waiting

The balcony opened onto the bay, wide and motionless, bathed in a golden light that made everything feel softer than it had any right to be. In the distance came the faint clinking of cutlery, the occasional murmur of laughter, and the patient lapping of waves below. It was the kind of view one would pay dearly for — postcard-perfect, touched by nothing but the passing wind.

Julien had arrived first. He ordered two glasses of white wine — a crisp Bandol, the kind she used to drink with olives at sunset. The waiter didn’t recognize him. He didn’t expect to be remembered. Five years was a long time in a town like this. Things here shifted like tides: names forgotten, buildings repainted, lovers replaced.

He chose the table tucked furthest back, half in shadow, where the sun didn’t hit the eyes directly but still let you watch it fall.

She appeared suddenly, silently, as if the heat itself had shaped her from memory. A pale summer dress, loose hair pinned back in a rush, bare shoulders glinting. She looked like a moment.

Her smile was careful — not cold, not warm, just a gentle line drawn between the past and the present.

“You’re early,” she said.

He stood, awkward for a second, unsure if a kiss on the cheek would be too much. It would.

“You look beautiful,” he replied instead.

She sat down without answering. Her fingers curled around the wine glass without lifting it. Her eyes moved across the horizon, not to him.

“Thanks for the wine.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was thick, familiar. Not uncomfortable, not yet. More like something waiting to be named.

“I almost didn’t come,” she said.

“I know.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“I know that, too.”

Her breath caught slightly. She looked away, then back. “You always did that.”

“What?”

“Know things without saying them. Like it gave you control.”

He smiled, faintly. “Did it?”

“No. It made me feel alone.”

A gull cried overhead. The sun dipped a little lower. She finally sipped her wine.

“Do you remember the last night?” she asked.

Julien nodded, his eyes still on the sea.

“The window open, the heat clinging to us like a second skin. You were curled into me like you wanted to disappear.”

“I was already gone,” she whispered. “Even then. That was the only way I could leave without breaking.”

“Did it work?”

She looked at him, and this time, the answer was in her eyes before she spoke. “No.”

The word floated out into the air and hung there a moment before dissolving like salt in wind.

“He’s kind,” she said. “He wants a house, a garden. Quiet things. He’s never lied to me.”

“And you?” Julien asked.

“I’ve told myself the truth,” she said. “I just don’t always believe it.”

The laughter below grew louder for a moment — a couple clinking glasses, a child running somewhere. The world kept turning, golden and oblivious.

“Why did you write to me?” she asked. “After all this time.”

Julien looked down at his hands. “I needed to know if I could see you again without wanting to stop you. Without wanting to ask.”

She tilted her head. “And can you?”

He took a long breath. “I’m not sure yet.”

She laughed, but it cracked in the middle. “God, you’re still so… vague. That used to drive me crazy. Always making me guess how you felt. It made everything feel like a test I could never pass.”

He didn’t reply.

She stood, walked to the edge of the balcony. Her figure was framed by the last sunlight, her outline glowing. He watched her as if from inside a dream he’d had too many times to trust anymore.

“He’s waiting for me at the hotel,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“Tomorrow is the wedding. The cake, the speeches, the people who don’t know what to say but say it anyway.”

“And you,” Julien said, “at the center of it, smiling.”

“Exactly.”

He joined her at the railing, close but not touching.

“You could not go,” he said.

She turned toward him slowly. Her face was unreadable.

“You could ask me to stay.”

He reached for her hand. His fingers brushed hers — a brief, electric contact.

“No,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

His voice was low, almost tender.

“Because I still love you. And I don’t want you to hate me for it.”

She blinked, like someone waking too soon from a dream.

“If I asked you to stop me,” she said, “would you?”

“No,” he said again. “Because that wouldn’t be love. That would be holding you hostage to something old. Tonight is the last thing we’ll have. It has to stay… unspoiled.”

She let his hand go. The light was nearly gone now. Everything below them began to blur into shadows.

“I always thought,” she said, “that if we saw each other again, something would shift. The world would crack open. But this — it’s quieter than I imagined.”

“That’s what goodbye really is,” he said. “Not fire. Just… stillness.”

She stepped back, slowly. Her dress caught on the corner of a chair. She didn’t fix it.

“I have to go.”

He nodded.

“Goodnight, Élise.”

She paused. “Goodnight, Julien.”

She turned, walked to the stairs. For a second, he thought she might stop. She didn’t. She disappeared, leaving the sound of her steps to fade into nothing.

Julien stayed, unmoving. The sun was gone now, and the sea had turned to ink. One last gull screamed somewhere in the dark.

He looked at the half-finished glass she’d left behind. He picked it up, held it to the horizon like a toast.

“To you,” he whispered.

And drank.