Fragments of us

Chris slept for less than three hours.

Not because he couldn’t close his eyes—but because every time he did, something stirred beneath the surface. Not dreams. Not nightmares. Just… pressure. Like a door that had been shut for years was beginning to crack open.

Morning light slipped through the curtains of his apartment, cold and indifferent. The city below was already alive—cars moving with purpose, people chasing deadlines, ambition humming like a second heartbeat.

He preferred it that way. Noise made it easier not to think.

Chris stood under the shower longer than necessary, letting the hot water blur his thoughts. He told himself it was exhaustion. A long week. Too many meetings. Too little rest.

Not him.

Definitely not him.

By the time he dressed—tailored suit, crisp shirt, expression carefully neutral—he was Christopher Tarten again. The rising political figure. The man who never stumbled, never hesitated.

The man who had buried his past so deeply it shouldn’t have been able to breathe.

And yet—

As he reached for his watch, his hand stilled.

For a split second, the reflection in the mirror shifted.

Not the man he was now—but the one he used to be.

---

The memory came without warning.

A corridor flooded with afternoon sunlight. Voices echoing off concrete walls. The faint smell of coffee and old books.

College.

He frowned, sharply, as if the thought itself offended him.

Don’t.

But memory didn’t ask permission.

Someone had been walking beside him—too close, shoulder brushing his arm deliberately. A presence that didn’t need to announce itself.

“You’re walking too fast,” a familiar voice complained. Lazy. Amused.

Chris’s jaw tightened.

Richard.

He could almost hear the way his name used to sound when Richard said it. Not Christopher. Never that.

Just Chris.

As if it belonged to him.

The image flickered—Richard leaning back against a railing, sunlight catching in his hair, smile crooked and unguarded. A version of him that didn’t exist anymore.

A version that shouldn’t exist at all.

Chris turned away from the mirror.

Enough.

---

The car ride to the office was silent, save for the low hum of the engine. His driver glanced at him once through the rearview mirror, then quickly looked away.

Good.

People were learning when not to ask questions.

At the office, the building felt sharper than usual. Glass, steel, reflections everywhere—nothing soft enough for memories to cling to.

Meetings blurred together. Reports. Briefings. Controlled voices speaking about influence and damage control.

Richard’s name was not mentioned.

That, somehow, made it worse.

Chris signed off on documents, nodded at the right moments, responded with precision. He was halfway through a discussion on international funding when his pen slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the table.

The sound was too loud.

He froze.

Another fragment surfaced, uninvited.

---

Late night. A desk cluttered with papers neither of them wanted to deal with. Two cups of coffee—one untouched.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Richard had said, leaning over his shoulder, reaching out without hesitation.

Chris remembered the weight of that hand. Warm. Familiar. Unquestioned.

“Then do it yourself,” Chris had replied, irritated but not moving away.

Richard laughed. Soft. Too close to his ear.

“You’re impossible when you’re stressed.”

“And you’re distracting.”

“Admit it,” Richard had murmured. “You like me here.”

The memory cut off there—before Chris could remember what he’d said in return.

Because some answers were more dangerous than silence.

---

“Minister?”

Chris blinked.

The room snapped back into focus. Faces stared at him, waiting.

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “Continue.”

No one questioned the brief lapse. They never did.

But as the meeting ended, his chest felt tight, like something unseen had wrapped itself around his ribs.

He stayed behind after everyone left, staring out at the city from the conference room windows.

He told himself it was nothing.

Old memories resurfacing didn’t mean anything. Seeing someone from your past didn’t mean they still mattered.

That was logic.

That was control.

And yet—

His phone buzzed.

Chris looked down.

No name. Just a number.

One message.

You still take your coffee black.

His breath caught before he could stop it.

The room felt suddenly too quiet.

He didn’t reply.

He didn’t need to ask who it was.

Instead, he locked his phone, placed it face down on the table, and pressed his palm flat against the glass window.

The city kept moving.

As if nothing had changed.

---

The drive home felt longer than usual.

Chris dismissed his driver early and chose to walk the last few blocks, despite the chill settling into the evening air. He needed the cold. Needed something real to anchor him.

Passing lights reflected off wet pavement. A bar on the corner spilled laughter onto the street.

Another fragment struck him, sharp and unexpected.

---

Rain-soaked streets. Shared umbrella, tilted wrong so one of them always got wet.

“You did that on purpose,” Chris accused.

Richard shrugged, unapologetic. “Maybe.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You keep walking with me.”

Their shoulders bumped.

For a moment—just a moment—there had been no titles. No expectations. No future waiting to tear them apart.

Just two boys who didn’t know how to name what they were becoming.

---