Time stutters to a hesitant pause when you see him. Across the wide open square, people stop in their tracks and there’s a wide pathway where you can run to see him.
You do not run.
People are still moving, of course, but it’s like gentle waves, whispering against you, too weak to deter your careful steps. You can only walk slowly but determinedly towards him. He has not seen you yet and you don’t want to rush the reveal.
It’s been so long, so many miles between you, a gulf a million miles wide despite the lack of physical distance. The bridge cannot be gapped by the few feet of marble floor now separating you but you ache for it to do so.
He finally turns his head up from his phone; maybe the force of your stare has finally hit him. He glances around once or twice before he catches your eye. Time stops once more, and your heart stops with it. His eyes are green and bright and so like your own.
You realise you have stopped moving only when someone tuts and blocks your view by walking directly in front of you. He raises a cautious hand and you return it with a slight twitch of your fingers. He is there and he sees you.
You cannot run.
He starts the slow journey to meet you in the middle because you cannot move. You cannot find it in you to take another step.
He stops a good foot away, afraid to get closer, hesitating and shoving his hands in his pockets. A mirror image of your own anxious posture.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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