Tanto_tiempo Apr 2026

You smiled, and for the first time in a decade, the dust began to settle. "At the beginning," you said. "Or maybe just at yesterday."

When the bell above the door finally chimed, the sound felt like a crack in a glass dam. You walked in, looking exactly the same and entirely different. The way you tilted your head to scan the room was a ghost of a gesture I used to know by heart. tanto_tiempo

The words didn't just mean "it’s been a long time." They meant: I missed your sister’s wedding. I wasn’t there when your father passed. I didn't see you learn how to be okay without me. You smiled, and for the first time in

The air in the cafe was thick with the scent of roasted beans and something much older—expectation. I checked my watch for the third time in five minutes. Across the table, the chair remained empty, a silent witness to the decade that had slipped through our fingers. You walked in, looking exactly the same and

I nodded, unable to find my voice. The "so much time" wasn't just a measurement of days; it was a physical weight sitting on the table between our coffee cups, invisible and heavy as lead. We weren't just two people meeting for a drink; we were two strangers trying to find the pieces of ourselves we had left in each other's pockets ten years ago. "Tanto tiempo," I finally agreed. "Where do we even start?"

Since "Tanto Tiempo" translates to "Long Time" or "So Much Time" in Spanish, this piece explores the weight of silence and the space between two people who haven't spoken in years.