The Last Time We Waited For The Light To Change

When the crosswalk signal blinked red and you stepped back instead of forward I knew without understanding that whatever had brought us there was already finished and my hand hovered uselessly where your sleeve had been a moment before.

Rain had just started not enough to commit to but enough to darken the pavement and blur reflections into something untrustworthy. The city sounded muffled as if cotton had been pressed into its ears. Cars idled. Someone coughed behind us. You watched the traffic with a focus that felt practiced and I watched you learning the shape of your profile as if I might need it later when you were gone.

We stood there longer than the light required. The green man appeared and disappeared twice without us moving. Within those few minutes it became clear that whatever version of us had believed in arrival had already paid its price. Nothing dramatic happened. There was only the quiet recognition that we had waited too long or not long enough or simply in the wrong direction.

I remember the first time I saw you clearly. It was inside a small gallery that smelled of paint and dust and old wood. Outside the windows the afternoon leaned toward evening. You were standing too close to a photograph of an empty road stretching into fog. You tilted your head as if listening to it. When I spoke you startled and laughed at yourself. We talked about the picture like it was a memory neither of us owned yet.

In those early weeks we walked everywhere. We walked to exhaust conversation and then kept walking anyway. You liked the long way home. I liked how you never hurried me. We learned the city through texture rather than landmarks. The warmth of sun soaked brick. The grit underfoot near construction sites. The way night air cooled our skin evenly when we crossed bridges.

We rarely touched at first. It was not restraint as much as curiosity. We seemed to be studying the space between us. When we finally did touch it was accidental and inevitable. Our hands collided reaching for the same door handle. We both apologized and neither of us moved away immediately. That pause did something irreversible.

You told me about your mother and the way she rearranged furniture whenever she felt trapped. I told you about my father and his belief that staying was a virtue even when it hurt. We spoke as if these things explained us. Maybe they did. Maybe they only offered us excuses.

Summer arrived with its relentless brightness. We spent evenings on your balcony where the city hummed below and cicadas stitched sound into the dark. We shared cold drinks and stories that wandered. Sometimes we said nothing and let the night do the work. I remember thinking that this was how people decided to stay without announcing it.

The first argument was small and inconclusive. It started over something practical and ended with both of us too tired to insist. Afterward we lay side by side not touching. The ceiling fan clicked softly. I stared upward feeling something loosen that I could not yet name. You turned toward me and asked if I was awake. I said yes. We did not continue.

From then on avoidance crept in disguised as politeness. We left earlier than necessary. We filled silences with observations that went nowhere. When you reached for me in public I sometimes pretended not to notice. When I reached for you in private you sometimes shifted away gently as if sleep had claimed you. Each small withdrawal felt reasonable on its own.

One evening we attended a friends birthday dinner. Laughter bounced off the walls. Glasses clinked. Someone made a toast about timing and luck. I watched your face as others spoke and felt strangely distant. When it was time to leave you lingered talking to someone else. I waited by the door pretending not to count seconds.

Walking home we argued without raising our voices. It was about attention. It was about expectations. It was about how tired we were of explaining ourselves. The streetlights cast long shadows that refused to line up. At our building you stopped and said maybe we needed space. I nodded too quickly. The elevator doors closed between us.

We did not break up. We practiced separation instead. Days passed without seeing each other. Messages shortened. When we met it felt like a reunion that forgot what it was celebrating. Still there were moments. Your head on my shoulder during a late movie. The familiar weight of your hand when you finally took it. Each moment felt borrowed.

Autumn came quietly. Leaves gathered in corners. The air sharpened. You told me you had been offered a fellowship abroad. You spoke carefully as if the words were fragile. I congratulated you sincerely. I asked practical questions. I did not ask what it meant for us. You did not volunteer the answer.

The night before you left we walked until the city emptied. The river reflected broken light. We stopped at the bridge and leaned against the railing. The water moved steadily indifferent to our hesitation. You said you were afraid of repeating yourself. I said I was afraid of changing too much. The wind cut through our coats.

At your door we stood facing each other uncertainly. You reached up and touched my cheek with the back of your fingers. The gesture was tender and distant at once. We kissed softly without hunger. When we separated you smiled sadly. You said we would talk. I said of course.

We did not talk. Your messages arrived from another time zone. Photos of streets I had never walked. Stories that felt edited. I responded supportively. I learned to read between lines. I learned to stop expecting resolution.

Months later you returned unexpectedly for a short visit. You called from the station. I hesitated before answering. When I arrived you were standing near the exit scanning faces. You looked relieved when you saw me. We hugged briefly awkwardly. The space between us felt both smaller and more dangerous.

We spent the day together revisiting familiar places. The gallery had changed exhibits. The balcony was now filled with someone elses plants. We talked easily about superficial things. Underneath everything pulsed. In the late afternoon rain began and we found ourselves at the same intersection near my apartment.

That was where we waited for the light to change. Cars rushed past spraying water. You stepped back when the signal turned green. I did not understand at first. Then I did. You said you could not cross with me. You said it would be harder to leave again. The honesty landed slowly.

We stood there until the red man returned. I told you that I had loved you even when I pretended not to. You said you knew. You said that knowing had not made the choice easier. The rain thickened. The city blurred.

When the next green came you crossed alone. Halfway across you turned. Our eyes met. You lifted your hand slightly then lowered it and continued. I stayed where I was until the signal changed again and again. When I finally crossed it was in the opposite direction.

Now sometimes I return to that intersection. The light changes predictably. People hurry or hesitate for reasons I will never know. I stand there and remember the weight of waiting with you. It no longer feels like a mistake. It feels like a truth learned slowly at the cost of crossing alone.