before it dried
it started slowly, like most good things. paul and i drifted through vieux-montréal, not in a hurry, not quite anchored. work came in waves—open tabs, notes half written, a reply sent too late but still meaningful. the afternoon stretched without agenda. there’s a softness in being accompanied without being watched.
the streets felt unfamiliar in a familiar way. like they’d been repainted since last week but forgot to dry. a man singing to himself passed us near saint-paul. no one looked twice.
by the time we reached frontenac, the air had changed. just enough rain to make you notice. just enough light to feel like something was ending.
we said goodbye without ceremony. no need for it.
i kept walking east, alone. the drizzle softened the sounds of the city. my breath felt louder than usual. there’s something about walking in the rain that makes your thoughts feel more like weather than noise.
the lights on sherbrooke flickered early. someone had chalked a heart onto the sidewalk that was already dissolving.
i didn’t take a photo. it didn’t need to last.
i just kept moving. not away, not toward. just through.