The Shifting Current

There’s a particular kind of ghost that haunts us, not of the dead, but of the almost-was. The following story tries to sit with that feeling, not of loss, but of the nebulous space just before it’s clear what’s even being lost. It’s about the edge of a choice, a turning point that might never fully turn, and the quiet, almost imperceptible vibrations of a connection that simply… wasn't ready.

​The voicemail was a ripple, not a wave. It had arrived three days ago, a quiet disturbance in the otherwise still waters of Liam’s routine. "Hey Liam, it's Maya. Hope you're doing well. Listen, I'm going to be in town next week, just for a couple of days, passing through. Thought... well, thought maybe it would be nice to catch up, if you're around. No pressure, of course. Just a thought. Anyway, talk soon, maybe."

​The 'maybe' hung in the air long after the message ended, an ethereal smoke ring dissipating slowly in the space between his ear and the phone’s speaker. It wasn’t an invitation, not truly. It was a suggestion, a hesitant half-step on the edge of a precipice, daring him to take the next. Liam hadn't replied. Not yet.

​He found himself, each morning, staring at the contact entry for Maya. Her name, a perfectly symmetrical pattern of letters, seemed to waver slightly under his gaze, as if the pixels themselves were undecided. He’d scroll past it, then back to it, his thumb hovering over the call icon, the message icon, like a diver contemplating a leap into an unknown depth. The water looked inviting enough, but what lay beneath the surface was a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered, or, more accurately, wasn’t sure he was ready to ask.

​Their last conversation had been just as ambiguous, six years ago. A late-night phone call, full of shared laughter and comfortable silences, punctuated by a tentative "What if?" that had drifted unanswered into the static of the connection. They were young then, on the cusp of different cities, different lives. He was poised to take an internship in Seattle, she was heading to New York for graduate school. The logistics were impossible, they’d both agreed, a silent, unspoken concession that felt more like a surrender. But even then, there was a lingering quality, a sense that the door wasn't quite closed, just ajar, letting a sliver of light—or maybe doubt—into the darkened room of their parting.

​Liam ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the familiar texture a small anchor in the rising tide of his indecision. He was supposed to be preparing for a client presentation, a crucial pitch that demanded his full attention. Instead, his mind kept replaying Maya’s voice, the slight upward lilt at the end of her sentences that had always hinted at an unspoken question, a yearning for something more. It was the same lilt that had drawn him in all those years ago, a whisper of a possibility that had never quite materialized into a roar.

​He walked to the window, staring down at the city street. The usual morning ballet of hurried commuters and yellow cabs unfolded below, a rhythm he usually found soothing. Today, it felt disjointed, a sequence of individual movements without a cohesive purpose. He felt a similar fragmentation within himself. Part of him yearned to pick up the phone, to bridge the gap, to see what six years had done to the girl who used to finish his sentences. Another part, a quieter, more cautious voice, whispered about the disruption, the upheaval, the unearthing of old feelings that might not be easily re-buried.

​What would they even talk about? Would the comfortable silences still be there, or would they be filled with polite inquiries about careers and weather, a polite excavation of a connection that had long since fossilized? He imagined the awkward first few minutes, the forced smiles, the careful probing for common ground, like two strangers trying to navigate a shared memory they weren't sure they both held anymore. Or worse, he imagined the spark, the undeniable chemistry that had always existed between them, reigniting only to be extinguished again by the inevitable march of their separate lives. The timing still wasn't right, was it? Or was it just that he was still the same, still hesitant to step fully into the current?

​His phone buzzed, a text message from his colleague reminding him about the presentation. Liam sighed, the sound catching in his throat like a half-formed word. The external world, with its demands and deadlines, was pressing in, pulling him away from the internal eddy of his thoughts. He knew he had to make a choice about Maya, or rather, about whether to engage with the choice she had tentatively offered. The window of opportunity was narrowing. She would be "in town next week," not next month, not next year.

​He pulled out his phone again, the screen now dark. He turned it over in his hand, feeling the cool, smooth metal. It wasn't heavy, but it felt weighted with all the unspoken words, the lingering questions, the road not taken. He pictured her in a new city, different from the one they'd known, perhaps with a different haircut, a different laugh. Would he even recognize her fully, or would he only recognize the ghost of the girl he once knew, shimmering at the edges of his memory?

​He moved back to his desk, the client presentation still waiting. The files were open, demanding his attention, pulling him back to the present, to the concrete, to the undeniable. He stared at the blank email draft he’d started earlier, addressed to Maya, but with no words typed. The cursor blinked steadily, patiently, an insistent pulse in the quiet room. He could write something, anything. "Great to hear from you." "Would love to." "Let me know your schedule."

​But the words wouldn't come. They felt inadequate, too small to encompass the vast, unarticulated feelings swirling within him. He was at the edge, poised, sensing the shift, but still tethered to the shore. The beginning was here, or almost here, a tremor in the air, a whisper on the wind, but it had not yet declared itself. And he, Liam, was still standing there, his hand resting on the railing, watching the distant, uncertain horizon.

Some stories don’t conclude; they just keep breathing. Liam’s moment, or lack thereof, is one of those. The uncertainty itself becomes the landscape, and the unresolved nature of his contemplation is, perhaps, the truest form of the 'one that got away' – not a person definitively lost, but a possibility forever held in the delicate, trembling balance of what might have been, never quite settling into either presence or absence. The current keeps moving, and so does he, still on the edge.