#slowliving

He is still exactly as far along as that Tuesday left him. Same rasp low in his throat, clearing it half a second before he says "Hi." You know that half-second by heart now, could probably hum it if anyone asked, which they won't, because nobody else is listening for it the way you are.

You keep arriving at ages he never had to answer for. He never met the version of you that came after. The one who changed jobs twice, moved apartments without telling anyone, and learned, badly, how to make the dish he used to make on Sundays. Still can't get the seasoning right. Not once. Never close.

Somewhere past a birthday nobody circled, you became the older one in a room that used to have a clear order to it.

Not tragic, exactly. Just off. Like walking into a house where someone moved the furniture and never mentioned it.

You used to think grief meant someone standing still while you kept moving. Some mornings it feels closer to this. You're the one standing still, and it's the years that keep walking, right past a fixed point that used to walk beside you.

He said that sentence once, mid-errand probably, thinking about something else completely. And without either of you agreeing to it, that throwaway line became the last new thing he ever got to say to you first.

He'll say it exactly the same way next year: same rasp, same half-second.

You won't say anything the same way twice again. Most nights, that's the whole of it, right there.

Three rings. You press the dash before the greeting finishes, same as always. Or maybe not always. Maybe some night you'll let it run all the way to the beep. Not tonight, though.

The kitchen goes back to being quiet, the way it was before you dialed.

You stay another minute anyway. Thumb resting on the warm patch of glass. Watching his age sit there next to yours — one of them finished now, the other one still, quietly, counting.