Good evening,
Beloveds,
And welcome to tonight's reading,
The final part of the short story I wrote,
When We Meet Again.
Just taking a few moments now to arrive fully in the space,
Maybe lengthening the inhales and exhales,
Maybe stretching out your body a little,
Signaling to your muscles that it's okay to relax,
To rest,
Snuggling down into your duvet.
And when you are ready,
Dear ones,
We shall continue with our story.
Life went on.
Once,
Sarah thought she saw him.
It was in Paris,
In a crowded market.
A man with messy hair,
A guitar case slung over his shoulder,
Moving quickly through the throng.
A heart leapt into her throat.
She pushed through the crowd,
Sketchbook clutched tight.
But when she reached him,
When the man turned,
It wasn't James.
Her knees went weak with disappointment.
Years later,
James thought he saw her.
He was playing in a London pub on a short tour.
A girl at the back of the room had the same dark hair,
The same quiet presence.
He froze mid-song,
Heart hammering.
But when she turned,
Her face was wrong.
He laughed at himself bitterly afterward,
Strumming harder to shake the ghost of her.
They were always a step apart.
Always,
Almost.
But the thread held.
Invisible,
But unbroken.
London had that kind of rain that wasn't a storm,
But a steady,
Endless mist.
The kind that seeped into your clothes,
Made the air heavy with the scent of stone and pavement.
Sarah ducked into the corner coffee shop,
Half-soaked,
Clutching her umbrella,
Hair sticking damp to her cheeks.
She was 26 now.
Her first solo exhibition was that evening,
Canvases she'd worked on for months,
Each one layered with the weight of her heart.
She should have been thinking about her paintings,
About critics and strangers.
But all she could think about was how badly she needed caffeine.
The shop was crowded,
Buzzing with conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine.
She joined the queue,
Digging for her wallet,
Barely noticing the man in front of her,
Until he turned.
Her breath caught.
James.
Older,
Yes.
His jaw was sharper,
His shoulders broader.
His hair was shorter,
But still a little unruly.
But his eyes,
Those same hazel eyes,
Warm and steady,
Were exactly as she remembered.
He froze,
Coffee half-bordered,
Staring at her as if she'd stepped out of a dream.
Sarah?
His voice cracked slightly on her name.
It was all she could do not to burst into tears,
Right there in the crowded cafe.
They found themselves at a small table by the window,
Coffee cooling untouched between them.
For the first few minutes,
Words tumbled out in bursts.
Laughter.
Disbelief.
Nervous questions.
How had ten years passed?
How were they here in the same city,
In the same moment?
I can't believe it,
James said,
Shaking his head.
Of all places.
Of all days.
Sarah smiled faintly,
Though her hands trembled around her cock.
I thought about this,
She admitted.
About what it would be like if… She trailed off.
If we met again,
He finished softly.
Silence stretched,
Filled with a thousand things neither dared say.
Then came the catching up.
He told her about music,
The endless touring,
The songs that never felt quite finished.
She told him about art school,
Exhibitions,
The loneliness tucked between the triumphs.
They laughed at old memories,
The ice cream dripping down their hands,
The terrible constellations they'd made up.
But underneath it all was something unspoken.
They hadn't stopped thinking of each other.
Not once.
When the cafe closed,
They stepped into the rain,
Neither willing to say goodbye.
Umbrellas forgotten,
They walked along the Thames,
The city lights shimmering across the water.
James stopped suddenly,
Looking out at the river.
His voice was quiet,
Raw.
I used to wonder if I made you up,
If you were just a dream I had one summer.
Sarah swallowed,
Her throat tight.
I thought the same.
But you weren't a dream.
You were the realest thing I ever had.
And in that moment,
Ten years fell away.
That evening,
James walked with her to the gallery.
She hadn't intended to invite him.
It felt too surreal,
Too sudden.
But when he asked,
Can I come?
Her heart couldn't refuse.
The gallery hummed with soft music,
People drifting from canvas to canvas.
Sarah stood nervously near her work,
Answering questions,
Pretending to be calm.
But every time she glanced across the room,
James was there,
Watching her with that same reverent look he had worn at sixteen.
Like she was something rare.
One painting caught his attention.
A sketchy,
Unfinished piece of a boy with a guitar under an oak tree.
His breath caught.
He didn't need to ask who it was.
Afterward,
They slipped out into the cool night,
The city quiet around them.
That painting,
He said softly.
You kept me.
Sarah met his gaze.
Steady now.
Always.
They lingered together in the weeks that followed.
Coffee turned into dinners.
Dinners into long walks.
Long walks into evenings that stretched until dawn.
It wasn't the rush of teenage love anymore.
It was slower and deeper,
Full of pauses and questions.
They talked about everything they'd missed.
The letters never written.
The almosts and the maybes.
And the ache that had lived in both of them.
One night,
Sitting on the banks of the river,
James reached for her hand.
Not tentative this time,
But sure.
Maybe,
He said quietly,
This time we don't let go.
Her answer was simple.
She laced her fingers through his.
No,
Not this time.
And when he kissed her beneath the city lights,
It wasn't clumsy or desperate.
It was steady,
Certain.
A kind of kiss that said,
We're home.
Sarah still kept James's old letter,
Folded and worn.
But now it lay beside new notes.
Scribbled lyrics he'd left her on scraps of paper.
Sketches she'd made of him playing guitar in the morning light.
Their days were ordinary.
Breakfast together.
Evenings of music and paint.
Laughter over burnt dinners.
But in the ordinary,
There was something extraordinary.
Because after ten years,
After oceans and silence,
They had found each other again.
Some loves bend.
Some break.
But the truest ones,
They circle back,
Stronger for the distance.
And theirs always would.
