Sometime

Arthur looked at the typewriter. He realized that "sometime" wasn't a point on a calendar; it was a ghost that lived in the space between intention and action. It was a comfortable lie that allowed him to feel productive while standing still.

He picked up the photo. On the back, in a scribbled hand, was a note: "We'll finish it sometime." sometime

They never had. The bridge had remained a skeleton of steel, and the friendship had drifted into a quiet history. Arthur looked at the typewriter