You and Me

The harvesttime wind conveyed a chill, dispersing leaves in shades of consumed orange and dark red along the cobblestone road. I zipped my coat more tight as I held up outside the bistro, looking at my watch for the third time. Five minutes late—to be expected for you. You were in every case only somewhat behind the clock, a quality that used to bother me. Yet, presently, it was one of those peculiarities I wound up missing more than I wanted to concede.
 
The entryway tolled, and you were right there, outlined by the brilliant light pouring out from the bistro. Your hair was a little more limited, your jacket a little unique, yet your grin—it was something very similar. It was the grin that had illuminated my reality for quite a long time, a similar one I'd fallen head over heels for, and the very one that spooky me when we chose to head out in different directions.
 
"Sorry, I'm late," you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
 
I shrugged, attempting to veil the feelings gushing inside me. "A few things won't ever change."
 
We subsided into a corner table, the smell of newly prepared espresso folding over us like an old, recognizable cover. The discussion began slow, like we were attempting to recollect how to address each other following quite a while of quiet. I saw how you actually blended your espresso counterclockwise and how you actually tapped your fingers to the musicality of a nonexistent tune.
 
"How's life?" you asked, breaking the delicate calm between us.
 
"Occupied," I said, tasting my espresso. "Work's been requesting, however great. Furthermore, you?"
 
You wavered, your eyes dashing to the window prior to meeting mine. "It's been... unique. Calm."
 
I gestured, grasping the load behind that word. Calm. That happens when two individuals who once shared everything out of nowhere have nothing to tell one another. The quietness develops, occupying spaces once buzzing with chuckling and love.
 
In any case, this evening was unique. The air between us wasn't loaded up with the sharpness of disappointment or fault. All things considered, it felt... nostalgic, similar to an old tune you'd failed to remember you adored.
 
"Do you recall the excursion to the lake?" you asked, a wicked shine in your eye.
 
"How is it that I could neglect? You demanded taking the tourist detour and got us lost for quite a long time."
 
You chuckled; the sound was so certifiable it immediately deleted the long periods of distance between us. "However, we wound up tracking down that little cafe. Best pie I've at any point had."
 
"No doubt," I expressed, grinning in spite of myself. "It was worth the effort."
 
We fell into a beat then, trading recollections and jokes, stripping back the layers of time that had framed between us. Briefly, it was like nothing had changed, like "you and me" actually existed.
 
Be that as it may, as the night wore on, reality sneaked back in. The bistro started to purge, and the heaviness of implicit insights settled over us.
 
"For what reason did you need to meet?" I asked, my voice milder than I planned.
 
You peered down at your espresso, your fingers following examples on the edge of the cup. "I surmise I simply needed to check whether we could still..."
 
"Still what?"
 
"Be us," you said, at long last gathering my look.
 
I didn't have a response for you. A piece of me needed to say OK, that we could revise our story, fix up the breaks, and begin once more. In any case, one more piece of me—the part that recollected the battles, the disaster—realized it wasn't so basic.
 
"I couldn't say whether we would be able," I said truly. "However, perhaps we needn't bother with being 'us' again to issue to one another."
 
You gestured gradually, a self-contradicting grin playing all the rage. "Perhaps you're correct."
 
As we ventured outside, the breeze had gotten, conveying the aroma of downpour. We remained there briefly, the city humming around us, as though the world hadn't quite recently moved in some little, puzzling way.
 
"Deal with yourself," you said, your voice scarcely over a murmur.
 
"You as well," I answered.
 
And afterward, with one final grin, you dismissed and strolled, leaving me remaining there with a heart that was some way or another both heavier and lighter simultaneously.
 
"You and me," I murmured to the breeze, "we'll continuously have our minutes."