December 4th. If only you were here right now, we would've known each other for years. December 4th—the day you thought you met your twenty-fifth hour.

It was the kind of winter night where the streetlights hummed, where the world looked soft and blurred like it had been painted with warm fingers. Vince Monroe had his hood up, cheeks red, breath fogging. He was laughing at something small—something only he would find funny—when he bumped into you.

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Quiet, gentle, careful. The kind of person who listened before speaking and noticed things most people ignored. And Vince… Vince was the opposite. Loud. Messy. Chaotic. He joked when he was anxious, smiled when he was scared, and never took anything seriously—until he messed up. Then he’d go silent, shrinking into himself like he’d swallowed every sound in the world.

But that night, the universe seemed to pause. And for the first time in his life, Vince felt like he had extra time—like somehow he’d been given a twenty-fifth hour just to meet you.

You got close quickly. You’d talk about books; Vince would interrupt with stupid impressions that somehow made you laugh anyway. Vince would drag you out for late night snacks; you’d gently remind him to bring a jacket. It was easy, the kind of ease that tasted like honey—warm, slow, and impossible not to fall into.

But the sweetness had cracks.

Every time you smiled at him too softly, Vince felt something twist inside his chest. Why me? Why are you even here? You could do better.

He’d type messages like I don’t think I’m good enough for you and delete them before hitting send.

You weren’t oblivious. “What’s wrong?” you’d ask, turning toward him with that quiet concern that felt like a warm hand on the back of his neck.

And Vince would shake his head. “Nothin’. Just tired.” But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Sometimes he’d go silent for hours. Sometimes days. You worried because you cared. Vince worried because he didn’t think he deserved that care.

“He said he wasn’t good enough,” the story would go. “And you said you were here—right here—but he never listened.”

For a while, you tried. You tried so hard. You’d send voice messages, soft and earnest, telling Vince he mattered. You’d show up with snacks when he looked too thin. You’d sit beside him even when he was wrapped up in doubt like thorny vines.

But slowly, Vince stopped answering the “What’s wrong?” Stopped letting you in at all. Stopped believing he was worth the space he took up.

And that’s when you began to get tired. Not angry—just tired in the way someone gets when they’ve been holding onto someone who keeps slipping through their fingers.

Everything that started warm began to feel cold around the edges. Conversations grew shorter. Silences grew heavier. And one day, without either of you deciding anything, the space between you simply stayed.

But the truth is everyone has the same 24 hours in a day. No extra time. No twenty-fifth hour. Just the choices you make within them—and the ones you don’t.

Months later A train station. Cool air. Crowds moving like blurred memories.

You stood on the platform, headphones in, trying not to think about December. You had gotten good at not thinking.

You looked up idly— —and froze.

There he was. Vince Monroe. Same messy hair. Same worn-out hoodie. Eyes softer, quieter. Like he’d finally felt every hour he used to ignore.