When the times were simple and the days were short, our thoughts, unprocessed and unevaluated, reached each other, sometimes like music, at times like a prickly needle, and mostly like a moving piece of air, unheeded yet always familiar. Not by coercion but by a wish coming true, a wish planted in youth and carried through the years...just like that, it was the moon for you when it sunned for me, and the sun for you when it mooned for me.

I was once told about two birds who came across night jasmine for the first time. When dawn broke on the horizon, one refused to open its eyes, still wanting the fragrance. Yet the other one never held qualms against the sunlight, for it knew the perfume that perished would revive once the flower wakes up again at night. I could not say which of us was which bird; I only know we had each been both birds on different days across the years. With oceans between us, I am not surprised you were dancing in the rain while I only got wet, and I was basking in the sun while you were seeking shadows.

Nostalgia became our quiet solace, threading into our conversation every now and then. When you talked about playing the same game and tasting the same meal, it stirred something in me. Deep down, I wanted the same, but I knew, perhaps you’re unaware or unwilling to see, that it might be the same dish, but the taste and aroma would be different. The rules may be the same, but the way we play and how we feel would be different. 

Blame the comfort I share with you or my lack of thought when I dropped that brick on a cold toe, “No man steps into the same river twice," failing to acknowledge your longing, fearing your disappointment in what you might not see, or perhaps you do see, but it’s just the nostalgia you wanted to revisit. 

I don’t know when, but I do know it will be different. But walk, we will, to the river, irrespective of its temperature and the current, and step into it together, creating memories, a new nostalgia for the future.