Parker Simpson

‚If You Loved Me Then’ The café smelled of espresso and rain-soaked streets, a fragile warmth in the middle of an overcast afternoon. I saw him first through the fogged window—familiar in a way that made my chest tighten, yet distant, like a photograph slightly blurred by time. Parker Simpson, once the center of my world, now sitting across the room with a calm composure that had always been his armor. We had been young, reckless in love, believing that nothing could break the rhythm we shared. Summers had been endless, laughter spilling into nights that felt eternal. But life had its own plans—jobs, distance, choices we could not undo—and slowly, imperceptibly, we drifted. I thought the memories would soften the pain of absence, but instead, they sharpened it, each recollection a reminder of what slipped through our fingers. Now, across the table, his eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, the years collapsed. I remembered the way his fingers had danced over piano keys, how his voice had carried me through storms, how love had felt like an unspoken promise. And yet, here we were—strangers in familiar skin. I wanted to ask him, if you loved me then, why does it feel like I don’t exist anymore? But the words caught in my throat, fragile as the rain tapping against the glass. I took a slow breath, letting the past and present mingle, hoping he felt it too—the echo of a love that had shaped us, fading yet stubbornly alive, waiting for a moment neither of us dared to name. (32, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)