Sunlight through the leaves, coffee cup in hand, and that feeling like everything’s just…right. Maybe it was the cozy knit dress (definitely!), maybe it was the perfect autumn breeze – either way, we’...

(The photograph catches us, doesn’t it? A little rumpled, certainly. Not unhappy, exactly…just...aware.)

“Here comes the noise again,” we murmur, more to ourselves than anyone. The rain outside is always quietening, of course, a gentle drumming against the windowpane, if only you were so keen to notice. It was a goodish dinner last night, wasn't it? Mostly. Your mother asked about the job, predictably enough – ‘Progressing nicely,’ we said, didn’t we? And nodded too enthusiastically. Probably should have put our foot in our mouth then. Everything usually does.”

We shift subtly, the sleeve of the cable knit sliding down our wrist for a fleeting glimpse of the wineglass – half empty, naturally. That particular one has been lingering longer than it should. “It’s not that bad, is it?” we ask you, the question almost lost in the crackle of the fire, though maybe you heard it. Maybe.

Your eyes, when they finally drift over, don’edoubtful.”A bit of dust hasn’t killed the roses yet.” We trace the thread of the wool with a fingernail, a small gesture, easily overlooked. Remember those summers, all the way back there, by the sea? When everything felt simpler, less like choosing between comfortable silences and ones that threatened to break.

This feeling, familiar and a touch terrifying. Like a well worn favourite cardigan—comfortable, yes, but perhaps a little faded. Did he say something nice about the picture? Or was it simply polite indifference? ”We” look at you, expectantly, haven't done much wrong, have we?"

That flicker of recognition in your eye, after all these years…did we dream it?”

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