It Can Happen So Fast
Then you found the old photo album.
"Remember this?" you asked, opening to a page from a summer barbecue three years ago. I was laughing in the picture, my head tilted back, and you were looking at me—really looking. I hadn't noticed it then. The way your smile softened when you thought no one was watching.
You nodded, your fingers tracing the edge of the photograph. "You left early. Said you had a headache."
You reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Your fingertips brushed my cheek, and I closed my eyes.
"It can happen so fast," you whispered. Not a question. An acknowledgment.
The afternoon had started with the kind of mundane silence that made you believe nothing would ever change. Sunlight stretched across the living room carpet, and the only sound was the occasional clink of a spoon against a coffee mug.