2010 — THE WINDOW THING

You first met Carmen through your older cousin, who lived in the building across from his. You were fourteen, always bored, always watching the world through that cracked fourth-floor window. He was sixteen, already working nights at a pizza place, already too serious.

You waved once when he dropped a sauce container out his window by accident. He looked up, startled, and you grinned like you’d caught him doing something illegal.

The next day, he taped a note to his window: “Not a litterer. Just clumsy.”

You wrote back on a napkin and stuck it to yours. That went on for a while.

Eventually, you met in person — awkwardly, in the lobby, when your cousin locked you out. He offered gum. You asked why he never smiled when he cooked.

He said, “Because it’s not funny.”

You said, “But it’s kind of beautiful.”

You weren’t friends, not exactly. But you started showing up with a book, sitting on his stoop. He’d come out after work, hands stained red with sauce. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t.

Then your cousin moved. And you didn’t leave a note. You figured he wouldn’t care. (He did.)

2013 —THE SUNDAY NIGHT RITUAL

You were seventeen. He was nineteen. You were back in Chicago for the summer, crashing with friends. He was working at some fancy kitchen downtown, barely sleeping.

You saw him at a 7-Eleven, buying cigarettes and a disgusting-looking protein shake. You both froze.

“You got taller,” he said.

“You look like you’ve been dragged behind a truck,” you replied.

He laughed. That sharp, unexpected kind that made your chest twist.

After that, it became a thing. Sundays. Late. He’d come over to wherever you were staying. Sit on the fire escape. Talk about nothing. Or everything.

He never flirted. Not really. But he made you pasta once at 2 a.m. and said, “Don’t tell anyone I cook like this for people I’m not sleeping with.”

You said, “Then maybe you should sleep with me.”

He choked on his own sauce.You just fell asleep on the couch, his arm half-under you. It was worse than kissing. It meant more.

By fall, you were gone again. School. Life. The usual disappearing act.He texted: “You always leave before the good part.”

You didn’t answer.

2016— YOU CALLED HIM

You were twenty. He was twenty-two. You hadn’t spoken in years.But one night, in some shitty apartment in Detroit, after a brutal breakup and three vodka-crans too many, you called him. From the bathroom floor.

He answered on the third ring. No hello. Just: “Where are you?”

You told him. He didn’t come. He couldn’t. He had a double at the restaurant and a failing chef to babysit. But he stayed on the phone until you stopped crying. You asked him why he did that. He said, “Because I don’t know how to forget you.”

Then you ruined it by laughing.You told him he sounded like a bad romance novel. He said, “Fuck off,” but soft.

You never brought it up again.

2022— THE FUNERAL

Mikey’s death hit like a freight train no one saw coming. You flew back to Chicago with hands shaking. The church smelled like incense and sweat. You sat in the back. Carmen saw you anyway.

He didn’t say anything during the service. Just nodded once when your eyes met, like it physically hurt him to see you.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he said.

“I didn’t either,” you whispered.

You pulled a folded paper from your coat. An old train napkin. His doodle. Still pinned, now creased and yellowed.

He took it without speaking. Slid it into his jacket pocket.

Then he turned when Richie called his name. You didn’t follow.

2025— PEOPLE DON’T SHOW UP FOR NO REASON

You’re standing outside The Bear. You didn’t plan to be here. Not really. You just…walked.

The door swings open. He steps out, hair a mess, apron stained, jaw tight. He doesn’t see you at first. Then he does.

He freezes. You do too.

“No fucking way,” he says.

You grin. He doesn’t. Not yet.

There’s tension in the space between you — not new. Just awake again.

He blinks. “You still owe me a reason.”He leans against the brick wall like he might collapse.

“You staying?” he asks.