I imagine that some years from now, Sparrow will come to ask me out for a lunch, since we haven’t met in such a long time. Then, at the table, she’ll ask me how I am doing. I’ll say fine. And I’ll ask her how the kids are. She’ll go on for a bit as new mothers usually do. Then, we start talking about our jobs. Mine isn’t particularly interesting, so she talks more about hers; and by the time the food arrives, she hasn’t yet finished. “It’s been an incredible experience since the first day, really” she’ll say, and end it off with a gentle pursed smile.
After dinner, she drops me off at the bus stop closest to my house, telling me as I leave that she still has a ton of work left to finish. She sighs jocosely and waves, and I close the door of the car. Then, as I walking home, I begin to recall the past; how our lives were once so intertwined, and now, they have gone such separate ways. Never did I imagine that things would be as they now are. It’s all so different from the future I had imagined. But in truth, I think, I had never really imagined any sort of future. The future was always something terrifying, and so I never looked into it. I ruminate all the same, along the empty lanes, on which both sides are houses lit up by the life and laughter of families. What have I achieved?