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Writer's pictureJustine Castellon

RAINY DAYS ON TUESDAYS

Updated: 4 days ago

A Short Story By Justine Castellon



TRIBECA TRICKLE


 


The coffee was cold as I gazed outside. Rain splattered continuously against the glass window of the cozy little café, Tribeca Trickle. The sun had already disappeared, giving way to the glow of lights from the lamp posts lining the sidewalks. Today, I decided to trade my work cubicle for the noisy yet alluring environment of this place. In the bustling city of New York, spots like this were always crowded with people.

 

 

Next to my small table with a single seat by the window, a group of teens were laughing at their usual jokes. In the far corner sat a couple in their twenties—perhaps my age—playing thumb wrestling absent-mindedly, looking sad as if they'd just ended something or broken up. I looked down at my 12.9-inch iPad, Apple Pencil in hand, putting the finishing touches on an artwork I was working on—a sketch of a guy walking in the snow. I had been commissioned to create a book cover that was due the next day.

 

 

My phone buzzed with a notification: Let me guess, you're in your usual spot. It was Gary—just Gary, no last name. I couldn't help but smile. I met him on an online artist forum. I posted an artwork and asked someone randomly for a slogan. He replied with a witty catchphrase: "Rainy Tuesday and fuzzy socks." I sent him a direct message to ask if I could use it.

 

 

Of course. That belongs to you now, he replied with a smiley icon.

 

 

Oh, does this mean it's mine now?

 

 

I think so, this time with a wink emoji.

 

 

Since then, Gary has become a constant presence during my solitary nights of working and meeting deadlines. He would often pop up on my posts, and we'd engage in our usual banter before moving to private messaging, where we talked about anything and everything.

 

 

What else is new? I'm beating a deadline tomorrow, I said.

 

 

Show me, he asked. I took a picture of my iPad and pressed the send button.

 

 

Are you supposed to make the art gloomy?

 

 

Yep! The publisher wants to show a heartbroken protagonist, I explained.

 

 

Make him kick the snow, like he's mad at something, he suggested.

 

 

That was how Gary and I communicated—through our phones. Yet it always felt as if he were right across from me. Sometimes, I imagined him in his favorite gray t-shirt and jeans, his wavy hair unruly as if he'd just rolled out of bed. He had mentioned his frequent smoking in one of our chats, so I could almost smell the faint mix of cigarette smoke and cologne that defined him.

 

 

We had been chatting almost every night for the past four months. Strangely, neither of us had brought up the idea of meeting in person. We were content in our own little world, finding solace in our virtual companionship.

 

 

Gary, I'm sitting across from a couple who I think is breaking up. It's kinda sad.

 

 

Hmmm... send them over a heart-shaped cake, Em. But cut it into a zigzag half. I liked how he called me Em instead of how everyone called me Emma.

 

 

You're sick! But she’s cute. Doe-eyed one. I typed back, giggling.

 

 

No, I'm not. That might make them think. And who knows, they might rethink the breakup.

 

 

Are you freaking serious?

 

 

I am. C'mon, if you do that, I'll pay for your coffee or whatever you're having tonight.

 

 

No way! I said.

 

That’s Gary. Sometimes, I thought he was serious, but then he'd send me a laughing emoji. He was always waiting for me to take on his dares. He's a writer. While I spent my evenings dabbling in digital art, often inspired by the stories I read online, he wrote short stories to be published under someone else's name. Yes, he ghostwrote in between his day job, which until now remained a mystery to me.

 

 

At times, he sent me drafts of his stories. Most of them were about finding hope in unlikely places—sad ones. His words captivated me, and I often replied with honest comments, praising his talent or even writing back with my own version of his story as I saw fit.

 

 

Our online friendship blossomed through a series of late-night messages, sharing thoughts about life, art, and sometimes our dreams. But most of the time, the nonsense things that made us both laugh. We also shared our Spotify playlists, amused at how we were both suckers for sad songs. Our connection, though virtual, felt profoundly real.



 


THE SAD DOE-EYED GIRL


 


It was the usual Tuesday. Looking outside the glass window of my cubicle, it was grey, and the rain was nonstop. I leaned on my chair, stretching my back, and looked around. Almost all cubicles were empty, except mine. After the pandemic, the company allowed the work-from-home setup. I wished I could do the same but couldn’t get work done at home. Having a 12-year-old brother with his bunch of gamers who camped in our living room was no joke. I stared at my computer screen, the soft glow casting a digital hue on my face.

 

I took my Apple pen, and my fingers moved deftly across the digital canvas on my iPad, which is connected to the screen. With each stroke flowing like a well-rehearsed dance across the digital panorama, I reveled in the precision and speed that defined digital art. Yet, beneath this swift accuracy, something felt hollow. I leaned back, eyes drifting to a miniature canvas painting propped on the cubicle wall—a relic from my college days. The bold, sweeping brushstrokes whispered memories of countless nights spent in an old studio, colors staining my hands as the rich scent of oils filled the air. I miss those days.

 

Yes, the digital brush was efficient, a marvel of modern art, but it lacked the intimate connection I craved. The feeling of a brush gliding over the canvas, the subtle resistance of the fibers, and the spontaneous blending of colors were worlds apart from the sterile precision of my tablet. I longed for the chaos and control of those days when art was a tactile dance.

 

I sighed, saving my work and shutting down the computer. An undeniable urge to break free surged through me. I reached for my iPad and slipped it into my tote bag with a familiar motion. The art department seemed like a ghost town, but the atmosphere changed when I reached the marketing offices. It buzzed around me, a hive of activity. Navigating through the corridors, my footsteps echoed softly as I made my way out of the building.

 

The city met me with its usual symphony—honking cars, distant conversations, and the gentle rustle of leaves and spatter of rain in the evening breeze. I opened my yellow umbrella and quickened my pace. It was a chilly night, but my destination was clear.

 

Tribeca Trickle appeared like a beacon, its warm glow spilling onto the sidewalk. I pushed open the door, greeted by the comforting aroma of coffee. Finding my usual spot by the window, I settled in. Taking a deep breath, I pulled out my sketchbook and charcoal pencil, beginning to draw as the lines flowed freely—imperfect and alive. In this cozy haven, I found solace in blending the old with the new, a gentle reminder of the enduring joy art brings me in any form. As I glanced around, my eyes landed on the girl from the previous night. She was alone now, her coffee likely cold, staring out the window. I noticed her wiping tears from her cheeks. What had happened to them? Sensing my gaze, she looked over and forced a smile. I returned the smile and quickly looked away, granting her the privacy to navigate her loneliness.

 

The café hummed softly with the clinking of cups and the murmur of hushed conversations. Outside, the night had drawn its velvet curtain, while inside, the dim lights cast a warm glow over my usual spot by the window. My phone buzzed, and Gary’s handle flashed on the screen.

 

What's your go-to midnight snack? He asked, the question appearing in our ongoing chat.

 

I smiled, my fingers tapping rhythmically on my phone, creating a silent symphony as messages flew between Gary and me. Popcorn. Sometimes with a sprinkle of cinnamon, I typed back, imagining the rich, comforting aroma that always reminded me of home.

 

Interesting choice! I’m more of a cereal guy. Midnight cereal is an art form. He replied with a laughing emoji.

 

Gary, remember the doe-eyed girl from the other night?

 

Who? The one with the guy who seemed to break up?

 

Yes. She’s here. Alone. Sad.

 

Breaking up is always unpleasant. Pain is inevitable.

 

Have you ever been hurt in a relationship?

 

I have. It’s not easy. Not something I want to go through again.

 

But how can you love deeply if you won't allow the pain?

 

I don’t think I’m equipped for that, Em.

 

Me, too.

 

Our conversations always spun something from nothing. If I noticed something odd, I’d tell him. Sometimes, we picked fights over irrelevant things, challenging each other. Yet, beneath the playful banter lay an unspoken truth—a struggle against the tide of feelings I found hard to justify.

 

How could I feel this way about someone I’d never met? The thought gnawed at me, a persistent whisper in the quiet moments. But each message from Gary tugged something inside me, tethering me to something that felt impossibly real.

 

As I pondered this, Lily, the barista with a perpetual smile and a knack for remembering regulars, approached my table. "Hey! Usual tonight?" she asked, her voice a gentle interruption to my reverie.

 

"Yeah, the usual," I nodded, grateful for the familiar routine.

 

She leaned in slightly, curiosity twinkling in her eyes. "You’re always here in the evenings. What keeps you company besides iPad… and now that sketchbook?"

 

I smiled, "Just a friend I chat with online. We've got this... connection."

 

"Sounds intriguing," Lily said with a wink. "Online can be a wild ride, not real. But sometimes, it turned into something unexpected."

 

Her words lingered as she picked up used cups from the previous customers. She returned a few minutes with a fresh cup, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the night air. She returned to the counter, leaving me with my scribbling.

 

Back in the digital realm, Gary had sent another message. So, what’s the view like from your usual spot tonight?

 

I glanced out the window, the cityscape a blur of lights and shadows. The usual—rain painting the streets, people bustling by. It’s like watching a living watercolor.

 

Wish I could see it with you. He replied, and I felt a pang of loneliness, the words resonating with an honesty that was both comforting and unsettling.

 

Our chat continued, words flowing like a river, carrying us through the night. My thoughts danced between hope and doubt, caught in the delicate balance of what we had and what could be. Each conversation with Gary was a step into the unknown, exploring emotions that defied logic yet felt undeniably right. But there was no discussion about wanting to meet. I wasn’t sure if I was ready at all. What if this magic is confined only to our digital world? Do I like him outside of the persona I created for him in my mind? What if he isn’t what he was supposed to project? What if Gary is a 70-year-old man bored somewhere in a nursing home? Or a 12-year-old girl making fun of someone like me. But I know, he sounded like Gary… my Gary.

 

And so, I sat there, with endless questions, amidst the soft hum of the café, navigating the ebb and flow of feelings that swirled around me. The rain outside mirrored the quiet wind within as I held onto the fragile hope that one day, the pixels and words would give way to something more tangible—a meeting of souls in the heart of the city we both called home.




TRUE DETECTIVE


 

 

It was Saturday, and the rain continued to fall. While other girls my age were busy with weekend parties and bar meetups, I found solace in my usual haven. Tonight, instead of my usual art supplies, I brought a book. I had discovered it on a corner shelf at the Barnes and Noble on 5th Avenue, and it had been lying on my desk for weeks. Romance wasn’t typically my genre, but the story about an American soldier from the 1920s traveling through time to 2018 and falling in love with a woman he met in Seattle intrigued me. This novel, “Back In Time” by Jenna Huey, began gaining popularity when it was adapted into a TV series. It helped, too, that the lead cast, a British hunk, fell in love with a young scriptwriter during filming–– a classic Cinderella story. With a hot latte and a sugar donut by my side, I began to read.

 

My phone blinked with a new message. Hey, what’s up? Of course, it was Gary.

 

Reading.

 

What?! Who hurt you?

 

C’mon, I read too.

 

Unusual and unheard of. Let me guess: is it a zombie apocalypse?

 

Promise me you won’t laugh.

 

Now I’m scared. LOL.

 

I’m reading a romance. A steamy romance, to be exact!

 

That’s even scarier! He replied, adding a shocked emoji.

 

I know you're the literary type between the two of us. What’s your favorite novel? I asked.

 

Alexander Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo. I like George Eliot, too.

 

Seriously?

 

Yes. Seriously.

 

Our conversation drifted to music; then, we dissected our favorite episodes from the TV series True Detective.

 

So, Gary, I finally watched True Detective. You were right; it's intense! I typed.

 

I told you! The first season is just mind-blowing. Rust Cohle is a legend. He replied

 

I agree, but I found his philosophical monologues a bit... overwhelming at times.

 

That's what makes him so fascinating! He's like a brooding philosopher-detective.

 

True, but I couldn't help but laugh when he started talking about "time being a flat circle." It was like, okay, Rust, calm down.

 

I could almost hear Gary laugh as he wrote his reply. Yeah, I get that. It's heavy, but it adds depth to the story. What about Marty? Did you like his character?

 

Marty was interesting, too, a bit more relatable than Rust. But sometimes, I felt like he was just a hot mess! I argued.

 

That's part of his charm, I guess. Their partnership is like a rollercoaster—completely dysfunctional, but somehow it works.

 

Definitely! And the cinematography was stunning. That long take in the fourth episode? My heart was racing!

 

Oh, the six-minute tracking shot! That was insane. I rewatched it like five times.

 

I thought I was the only one! I laughed as I was typing. So, do you think the second season holds up? I asked in a follow-up message.

 

Honestly, it's a different vibe. Not as captivating as the first, but still worth a watch.

 

I'm curious to see how they change things up, Gary. I hope it doesn't get too dark, though.

 

Well, it is True Detective, so expect some darkness. But that's part of the thrill, right?

 

I suppose you're right. It's definitely a wild ride. Thanks for the recommendation, Gary!

 

Anytime, Em! Just remember, "time is a flat circle."  This time with three wink emojis

 

Oh, no, not this again! I laughed out loud.


 

Before I knew it, I had forgotten all about my novel, and the night slipped away until it was time for me to head home.




 

WORDS & ILLUSTRATIONS


 



As fall gave way to winter, Gary infused my art with his colorful words while I brought his stories to life with my vivid illustrations. On countless nights, he would send me drafts, and I’d respond with visual interpretations, enriching his narratives and finding new depth in my creations through his inspiring prose.

 

One day, out of the blue, Gary sent a message. Would you like to collaborate on a children’s book?

 

When you say 'a book,' do you mean 'the book'? I asked, a mix of excitement and disbelief in my voice.

 

Yeah, that's exactly what I mean.

 

Our decision to embark on this project—an illustrated book blending his stories with my drawings—came naturally. No one found it odd despite the absence of a formal agreement or even a face-to-face meeting. We were enjoying the process too much to be burdened by such details.

 

So, he wrote the storyline; I drew the illustration.

 

Gary knew I was often at Tribeca Trickle. One day, he messaged me with playfulness. Did it ever occur to you that I might be the guy at the next table? Accompanied by three laughing emojis.

 

I dropped my phone, scanning the café with a mix of surprise and amusement. Gary, are you serious? Don't kid with me!

 

In response, he sent a cascade of laughing emojis, flooding my screen.

 

Our bond grew stronger, forming a connection that seemed destined to transcend the digital divide. Our night chats often stretched into the morning. Yet, we adhered to a rule: no messaging during work hours.

 

One night, feeling the weight of our budding connection, I finally gathered the courage to ask if we could meet in person.

 

Do you think we could meet in person? I typed, my heart pounding as I  clicked the send button, with hope and fear, willing the message to spark a new kind of magic.

 

The pause that followed was longer than usual. I pictured Gary on the other side, fingers hesitating over the keys, wrestling with indecision. At last, his response appeared. Each word was a blow to my hopeful anticipation.

 

I don't know. He replied, the hesitation evident even in text. It's complicated.

 

‘K. I managed to type. A single letter that conveyed the weight of my disappointment.

 

He followed with a carefully worded message, heavy with reluctance. Emma, I'm not ready to meet in person. I value our connection so much, but I don’t think I can do this. I'm sorry.

 

He called me Emma. Since the beginning, I have been simply ‘Em’ to Gary. This was how serious he was. A pang of rejection pierced my spirit, yet I responded with words cloaked in understanding. I understand, Gary. Our work together means the world to me. Let's keep creating, okay?

 

The conversation ended abruptly, an invisible wall rising between us. The air grew dense, burdened with the weight of unspoken fears and lingering doubts. I turned off my phone, overwhelmed by the abrupt shifts in mood. Even the comforting glow of my iPad dimmed to a cold, shadowy hue, its once vibrant colors losing their warmth.

 

For the next few nights, Gary’s absence felt like a chasm, his silence more piercing than words could ever be. I threw myself into our project—the illustrated book. Gary wrote the working title, “Snowy Adventures with Benny the Bear.” My digital brush danced across the screen, an attempt to escape, yet every stroke resonated with the void left by our disrupted connection. The café's familiar comfort seemed alien, each shadow and corner whispering tales of loss.

 

"Hey there! How's your day going?" Lily's bright greeting struggled to break through the haze of my thoughts. Noticing my silence, she leaned in closer, her voice filled with sincere worry. "Is everything alright?"

 

I managed a weak smile, nodding slightly. "Yeah, just a lot swirling around in my head," I replied, gripping my coffee cup as though it could tether me to reality.

 

I looked outside the window from my usual spot. The city life played out beyond the rain-streaked windows. I felt the sharp emptiness where our conversations used to be. The stories we had crafted together, the shared laughter and dreams, now echoed like distant memories in a hollow chamber, desperately seeking closure.

 

Every night, I waited for his return, for the little ping of a message that could bridge our silence. But Gary’s communication ceased as if he had vanished into thin air. I reassured myself that he might be swamped with work and pressing deadlines.

 

Then, unexpectedly, my phone lit up. My heart skipped a beat as I rushed to open the messaging app. It was Gary, but there was no message; it was just a file to download. I clicked it open. It was the storyline for our book. Relief washed over me; our collaboration was still alive.

 

I replied, Thank you.

 

Minutes turned into hours, yet no response came. Perhaps he was swamped, or maybe he was upset with me. I decided to give him space and let things be. I tried to hold onto the friendship we established, the shadows of our digital companionship tucked away, hoping they might bask in the light again one day.





BENNY THE BEAR & FOXY FOX


 

 

Another Tuesday dawned with the gentle promise of Spring, a subtle whisper in the air that the world was waking up from its wintry sleep. As I settled into my usual spot at the café, the transformation outside was undeniable. The harsh, biting chill of winter was softening, giving way to the tender embrace of Spring. Pale sunlight filtered through the rain-streaked windows, casting delicate patterns on the floor, while the faint scent of blooming flowers hinted at new beginnings.

 

Focusing intently on Gary's storyline, I immersed myself in the colorful universe we were crafting together. Benny the Bear became my guiding muse, transforming every illustration into a joyful adventure. The digital brush in my hand seemed to channel Benny’s playful spirit and gentle strength, infusing each scene with lively energy. Warm and soft colors came alive, mirroring Benny's comforting yet playful exchanges with his friend Foxy Fox, while the textures captured the adventurous spirit of their hearts. Each brushstroke was more than mere art; it was a heartfelt tribute to both Benny and Foxy, reflecting their charming personalities and boundless curiosity. This artistic journey also felt like a silent dialogue with Gary—a shared creative adventure that deepened our connection.  

 

After hours of focused creativity, I compiled the finished illustrations and sent them to Gary. Moments later, his reply flashed on my screen.

 

Thank you. He said.

 

It was a stark contrast to the lively exchanges we once shared. The playful banter, the shared laughter—like echoes of a past now faded into silence. I couldn't help but wonder what had gone wrong, but the answer remained elusive, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.

 

As I sipped my now lukewarm coffee, I pondered the shift in our relationship. Another message from Gary appeared, this time with a new set of storylines. Despite what was happening between us, our project continued moving forward. Yet, beneath the surface, I yearned for the bond we once had, hoping that, like Spring, it too would find a way to bloom anew.

  



THE MEETING


 

 

Tonight, the café was crowded with students from Hunter College –– another hell week. As I was preparing to go home and save my latest illustration, my phone screen lit up unexpectedly. It was him. I assumed he was sending a new set of storylines, so I opened the message, ready to download a file, but was caught off guard.

 

What's up? He asked.

 

Are you asking me? Is this message meant for me? I replied, uncertain.

 

Of course. I'm sorry, Em. He responded.

 

I hesitated to probe further, fearing that a single misstep might cause him to retreat once more. Instead, I chose a safer path. It's okay. How are you? I asked.

 

I'm fine. I had to sort out some important things. He said.

 

‘K. I hope everything is alright. I replied, my words tinged with unspoken concern.

 

Sensing my unease, Gary added, Em, are we good?

 

Sure. I shot back, trying to mask my lingering uncertainty.

 

By the way, those illustrations were great. Well done! He complimented.

 

Thanks. I had a pretty good storyline to work with. I admitted.

 

We make a fine team, don't we? He asked, a hint of warmth returning to his tone.

 

We do. I agreed, feeling a tentative bridge forming between us once more.

 

Weeks followed by months, and we slipped back into our familiar rhythm. His messages began to pop up regularly, often about nothing in particular. Simply our old game. It was both comforting and sentimental, as if we were weaving our world back together. Meanwhile, our book neared completion.

 


 

 

As I stepped out of the shower, my phone buzzed with a notification. Who could it be? It was only 7 a.m., and no one ever messaged before nine at work. My social media presence was practically nonexistent. I hurried to the bedside table, water dripping from my hair onto the towel. Swiping the screen, I saw it was Gary.

 

Sorry for breaking our rule, Em. I couldn't sleep last night. His message read.

 

What's up? I replied.

 

I sent the first five pages to a literary agent. She's interested in seeing the rest and wants us to sign on.

 

What? That's exciting! I responded, my heart leaping with the possibility.

 

I know. He replied.

 

So, what's bothering you this early?

 

Do you know what this means? He asked.

 

What?

 

We need to finally meet.

 

His words stopped me in my tracks. Goosebumps prickled across my skin. Meeting Gary at last—was this what I had longed for all these months?

 

Em? Are you still there? He messaged again.

 

Yeah. Sure. When? I typed back, feeling a mix of anticipation and nervousness.

 

This Tuesday. At the café.

 

I'll see you then. I finally replied.




 

TUESDAY, AT LAST!


 

 

The day had finally arrived. Our plan was simple: meet at Tribeca Trickle, the very café where so many of our conversations had taken flight. I was initially dressed to impress with a black dress paired with black knee-high boots. But I took them off at the last minute and settled for a powdered blue top under a navy blue sports jacket tucked neatly with a pair of decent jeans.   The anticipation was a living, breathing thing, threading through my veins, painting each moment with animated shades of what could be. I could almost see Gary across the table, imagining his laughter mingling with the café chatter.

 

The sky was a deep, moody gray, clouds pregnant with the promise of rain. Hah, a rainy day on Tuesday. And it’s Spring! I liked to think it mirrored the bittersweet opus playing at the back of my head. I packed my iPad and art supplies, setting out with a flutter of nerves dancing in my stomach. My mind flitted back to our last conversation, a casual exchange that had ended with an unassuming, I will see you then.

 

But as the café came into view, I felt a cold unease. My phone buzzed, vibrating urgently against the small bag slung over my shoulder. I fished for that device that bridged between me and Gary. It was him.

 

Hey, I’ve got news,  read the message. My heart skipped, caught in a tangled web of hope and dread. I opened the message, the weight of the unknown pressing heavily.

 

I'm so sorry, it continued. I can't make it. Something's come up.

 

The words on the screen seemed to glare at me, each letter a piercing note of disappointment echoing through my chest. I paused, letting the rain drench the city around me, each drop a reminder of the meeting that would not happen. My phone remained silent in my hand, an unanswered plea for clarity in the confusion of my feelings. It was as though the emptiness around me mirrored the void within—a silent admission of a potential loss that never had the chance to truly exist.

 

I watched as people hurried past, umbrellas shielding them from the downpour, their laughter and voices distant yet achingly close. The world seemed to move on, indifferent to the storm brewing within.

 

He vanished from thin air… again.





GHOSTED


 


Spring and summer slipped away quickly, and as autumn settled in, countless Tuesdays drifted by, each carrying the weight of unanswered questions. The rain had taken a hiatus, leaving New York City wrapped in a tapestry of fiery reds, burnished golds, and deep ambers. Leaves spiraled down like confetti, whispering secrets of change and new beginnings.

 

I hadn't heard from Gary since that fateful day. He left the art forum where we first met. Every message I sent remained unread, echoes lost in the digital void. It was then I truly understood the sting of "ghosted." The seat across from me at Tribeca Trickle felt painfully vacant, as though it had been waiting for someone who might never arrive. I craved closure, that elusive end to our unfinished story. But how does one find peace when tethered to so many unresolved threads? The autumn air was crisp, laden with the scent of earth and decay, mirroring the lingering bittersweet longing. Damn you, Gary!

 

I ordered my usual coffee, its bitterness now echoing the chill that had settled within me. Inhaling deeply, I drew in the aroma of freshly ground beans, seeking solace in its familiarity. That's when I noticed the girl from a few months back. She was giggling, the cute guy whispering something in her ear. Oh, it's the same guy! They got back together! On impulse, I reached for my phone to text Gary about them, only to remember he was gone… completely. The girl glanced my way, perhaps recognizing me as the person who had stalked –– more like observed before. She smiled. I smiled back. She looked away, now granting me the privacy I once gave her.

 

 

I pulled my sketchpad from my Polo Ralph Lauren Bear tote. My fingers lingered over its worn spine before I turned to a fresh page. With pencil in hand, I began sketching—a solitary figure standing in the rain, one foot ready to disturb a pool of water. Gary’s messages came alive through lines and shades. Each stroke was a whisper of our shared moments, now echoing in a silent room.

 

I took a deep breath. The aroma of coffee mingled with the bittersweet taste of nostalgia, leaving a trace of longing on my tongue. The figure on my page seemed to look up as if seeking solace in the gray sky, much like I sought answers in the fading light. I sat there, trapped in the sad notion of what could never be, the weight of regret pressing against my chest. At that moment, I understood the difficulty of letting go— much like unweaving a tapestry, each thread a memory, each tug a gentle pain that resisted release.

 

As the setting sun cast a gentle glow over the streets, the hours slipped by, prompting me to reflect on Gary one last time. Perhaps he was truly a 70-year-old man in a nursing home who had quietly passed away in his sleep, or maybe a 12-year-old girl whose parents had confiscated her phone, leaving her grounded indefinitely. I found a bittersweet amusement in my attempts to make sense of it all. Lingering a bit longer in the café, I was caught between the possibilities of what might have been and what was, wrapped in the delicate warmth of these musings. I let the memories of Gary linger—it was still there, our connection woven into the fabric of our shared stories. It knew it would keep coming back, much like the rain on Tuesdays, hanging in the air like an unfinished sentence, still waiting for its conclusion.


 




Justine Castellon is a brand strategist with an innate ability to weave compelling narratives. She seamlessly blends her professional insight with her passion for literature. She writes about her journey as a writer in between poetry and short stories. She is the author of three novels –– Four Seasons, The Last Snowfall, and Gnight Sara / 'Night Heck.
(Twitter/X @justcastellon)

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