A hey to remember

They caught each other at the first hey, in the corporate kitchen facing the world outside. Then came the coffees, the shared thoughts, the hugs while watching sunsets on the east side, smiling like they meant it.

Leah was scared then. He said she was impulsive. She called it breathing.

They watched the city lights from rooftops. Saw parachutes cross the sky at dusk.

At first, they belonged elsewhere. 

Later, to no one — not even themselves. Timing stayed cruel.

The last time he wrote, she was already hiking into forever. 

She didn’t look back. Most days, anyway.