A recognition. A longing. Panic.
Everything inside him screamed to do something, to move, to act, but his body was already a step ahead of him.
The din of the diner—the clatter of silverware, the buzz of the old soda machine, the low murmur of voices—faded into the background. Time slowed, stretched out, as though the world had pressed pause. The only thing real in the moment was him, the stranger, and the woman at his side.
Without thinking, without meaning to, Archie stood. His legs felt unsteady, as though they had suddenly forgotten their place in the world, but he couldn't stop. It was as though his body was already walking before his mind had caught up.
His steps were hesitant at first, like he was unsure of what he was doing. The floor creaked under his weight as he crossed the small distance between the counter and the booth where they sat.
What are you doing?
The question flared in his mind, but he didn't stop.
When he reached their table, the man's gaze flickered up, meeting Archie's eyes with a quiet intensity that sent another jolt through his chest. It was a momentary connection, brief but electric, before the man's lips parted—like he was about to speak—but the words never came.
And in that space, in that second where everything hung suspended, Archie finally said it.
"Have we met before?"
The question wasn't a plea. It wasn't even a desperate search for answers, not really. It was something else—something raw, something instinctive.
The man blinked, his expression unreadable at first. A flicker of something passed through his eyes, something like surprise, followed quickly by something else. Recognition. Confusion. A quiet wariness. It was subtle, but it was there.
The woman beside him didn't move, didn't look up, but there was a shift in the air around her too. Something tightened in her posture, as if she were bracing herself for something. Her lips pressed together, but her gaze stayed fixed on the man, as though waiting for his answer.
Archie's pulse raced in his ears. His skin prickled. The room felt too small now, suffocating. He could feel the weight of the moment, the strange, unbearable tension that stretched between them. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his breath shallow.
The man's eyes lingered on him, and for a long moment, the world was silent. The noise of the diner, the chatter, the clinking of plates—it all fell away, swallowed by the weight of this one question, this one moment.
The man blinked, his brow furrowing slightly as if the very idea of it didn't make sense. He tilted his head, his lips parting to respond.
"I think you're mistaken," he said, his voice steady, but there was a cool edge to it now, an emptiness that spread between them like a veil. His eyes shifted away from Archie, just for a moment, as though trying to brush off the question before it could take root. "We've never met."
The words were a knife, clean and precise. They cut through the raw tension between them.
Archie froze, the air around him thick with something he couldn't name. His chest tightened, and for a second, he couldn't move, couldn't speak. The world seemed to slip just slightly out of focus, as though it were all a cruel joke. His mind was a maze of tangled thoughts, racing to make sense of it, to hold onto the thread that had slipped from his grasp.
No. No, that wasn't possible.
But the man's face was unfamiliar now, and there was nothing in his gaze—nothing at all—that felt like the connection Archie had been certain of.
Archie's breath faltered, a shaky laugh escaping his lips without his permission. "I... I must be mistaken then." The words felt hollow, empty.
The woman beside the man, still brushing her hand through his hair, glanced up at Archie then, her expression shifting. Her lips parted, but her gaze—sharp, guarded—lingered a little longer than necessary, as if weighing him. She didn't seem surprised, though. Just... curious, in an almost detached way.
"I think you are," she said softly, as though the matter was already closed, the conversation over before it had even begun.
Archie nodded slowly, stepping back, his movements stiff. It wasn't real. It couldn't be. But his pulse still thrummed painfully in his ears, and his chest still ached with a strange kind of emptiness.
The moment stretched out, pulling at him in ways he couldn't explain. He had been sure. So sure. But the more he looked at them—the man, the woman—the more their faces felt distant.
It was like a phantom of a memory, a shadow that couldn't quite take form.
The silence behind him seemed to stretch endlessly, but there was nothing to hold onto now. The answer—the one he'd thought he would get—was already slipping away.
As he resumed his place at the counter, his hands trembling slightly as he wiped down the surface, a terrible thought settled in his mind.
Maybe he had been mistaken. Maybe the connection—the one that had felt so real, so alive—had never been real at all. Maybe it was just the remnants of a dream, fading with every passing second.
He stared at the dish rag in his hand, his fingers twisting it absently, his eyes unfocused. The din of the diner, the chatter of the customers, the clatter of dishes—it all rushed back in, louder than ever.
But it was nothing like it had been before. It was too much now. Too raw. Too final.
He wasn't sure which hurt more—the fact that the man didn't remember him—or the crushing feeling that maybe he had never known him at all.