The first time I realized we were out of sync, you were smiling.
It was the kind of smile that belonged to beginnings soft, hopeful, unaware of endings. You stood across the street from me, sunlight catching in your hair, waving like the world hadn't already shifted beneath our feet.
I didn't wave back.
Not because I didn't want to but because I was already letting go.
Three months earlier, you had been the one standing where I was now, watching me walk away with the same quiet devastation tightening your chest. Back then, I'd told myself I wasn't ready. That love needed space. That timing mattered.
I believed it.
Now here I was, ready in ways I hadn't been before, aching with the kind of certainty that only comes after loss. And there you were, just beginning.
We lived in the same city, breathed the same air, and crossed the same streets but somehow, we were never standing in the same moment.
Your name is Mira.
Mine is Jonah.
And this is how we missed each other.
We met on a Tuesday afternoon that smelled like rain and unfinished conversations. You were late to the café, breathless, apologetic, and with your hair pulled into a messy knot, like you hadn't planned on being seen by anyone important.
I wasn't important yet.
You sat across from me and smiled like you had all the time in the world.
"I'm glad you came," you said.
I remember thinking how strange it was that something so simple could feel like a promise.
Back then, I was light. Untethered. Still believing that love was something you stepped into when you felt like it and stepped out of when it became heavy.
You were careful with your words. Thoughtful. You listened the way people do when they're already imagining a future, even if they won't admit it yet.
I didn't notice.
I never do until it's too late.
We dated slowly. Weeks stretched into months. You learned how I took my coffee. I learned how you went quiet when something mattered too much. You fell in love like you were building a home, brick by brick.
I fell in love like I was visiting.
The night you told me you loved me, the city was loud with traffic and laughter spilling from bars. You said it softly, like you weren't sure if the words would survive the space between us.
"I don't need you to say it back," you added quickly. "I just needed you to know."
I smiled. Kissed your forehead. Told you I cared.
And something in you broke quietly, without sound.
You didn't leave. You stayed. You always stayed.
Three weeks later, I ended it.
"I'm not ready," I said, staring at the wall behind you because I couldn't bear to watch your face. "I need time."
You nodded. You always nodded. Like understanding was something you owed me.
I didn't see you cry that night. I only heard it later, in the way your voice changed when you said goodbye.
After you left, I felt nothing.
Until I felt everything.
Love arrived late for me. It always does. It showed up in empty rooms and unread messages. In songs I couldn't listen to anymore. In the realization that no one else looked at me the way you had like I was already home.
By the time I was ready, you were gone.
Or so I thought.
That's how we ended up here on opposite sides of the street, months apart in feeling, seconds apart in distance.
You waved again, hopeful, unguarded.
"Mira!" you called, jogging over like the past hadn't already happened.
I forced a smile. "Hey."
You talked fast, excited, telling me about your new job, your new apartment, the way life had finally started moving again. Your eyes were bright. Alive.
You were falling in love with the world.
I was still in love with you.
"I was thinking," you said, hesitating just a little, "maybe we could try again? Slowly. No pressure."
There it was.
The moment I had prayed for. The second chance I thought I wanted.
Except now, the roles had shifted.
I saw it then the distance in your voice when you spoke about us. The way your hope didn't reach your eyes the way it once had. You weren't asking because you needed me.
You were asking because you were ready to move on and wanted closure.
I swallowed.
"Mira," I said gently, "I think you're already gone."
You frowned. "What?"
"I think you loved me first," I continued, my chest tight. "And now… I'm the one who's late."
The smile faded. Not into heartbreak but into understanding.
And that was worse.
Some love stories don't end because people stop loving each other.
They end because love arrives at different times.
And timing, unlike love, never waits.