Tanto_tiempo (PRO)

The air in the cafe was thick with the scent of roasted beans and something much older—expectation. I checked my watch for the third time in five minutes. Across the table, the chair remained empty, a silent witness to the decade that had slipped through our fingers.

The words didn't just mean "it’s been a long time." They meant: I missed your sister’s wedding. I wasn’t there when your father passed. I didn't see you learn how to be okay without me. tanto_tiempo

You sat down, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The noise of the city outside faded into a dull hum. You reached for your water glass, and I saw the thin silver band on your finger that hadn't been there when we said goodbye in that rainy terminal. "Tanto tiempo," you whispered. The air in the cafe was thick with

When the bell above the door finally chimed, the sound felt like a crack in a glass dam. You walked in, looking exactly the same and entirely different. The way you tilted your head to scan the room was a ghost of a gesture I used to know by heart. The words didn't just mean "it’s been a long time

I nodded, unable to find my voice. The "so much time" wasn't just a measurement of days; it was a physical weight sitting on the table between our coffee cups, invisible and heavy as lead. We weren't just two people meeting for a drink; we were two strangers trying to find the pieces of ourselves we had left in each other's pockets ten years ago. "Tanto tiempo," I finally agreed. "Where do we even start?"