Tanto_tiempo Apr 2026

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.

You sat down, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The noise of the city outside faded into a dull hum. You reached for your water glass, and I saw the thin silver band on your finger that hadn't been there when we said goodbye in that rainy terminal. "Tanto tiempo," you whispered. tanto_tiempo

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. When the bell above the door finally chimed,

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?" You sat down, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moved

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.