The Distance Between Yesterday and Tomorrow

Our debut original short story.

Sitting in his favorite easy chair near the warm glow of a fireplace, Jules’s mind wandered from the new romance novel he was reading. He tilted his head upward, never imagining he could feel so lost. But here he was, at 68, more adrift than ever. He shuffled across the worn wood floor of his small apartment, the early morning light casting soft shadows that danced over the mementos of his life with Martha. Their life together was all around him—photos, souvenirs, things she had collected during their thirty-five years of marriage. But now, they felt more like relics of a world that no longer existed.

He ran his hand along the edge of the wooden frame that held one of his favorite photos of Martha—taken in their backyard on her 50th birthday. She was smiling, her dark hair catching the sunlight, her olive skin glowing as she held up a glass of champagne. That smile could light up a room. She had been a beautiful woman, radiant in the way that spoke of deep inner strength and warmth.

Jules closed his eyes, remembering the way she used to tease him about his looks. She would cock her head, a playful glint in her eyes, and say, “You’re still the most handsome man I’ve ever known, Jules.”

“Oh, you say that to all the boys,” he would retort, flashing her a wink.

But it wasn’t just words. He knew she meant it every time, just as he had meant it every time he told her she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. He wondered now if he had said it often enough. There had been so many moments in their years together when life got busy, and the simple things—like telling her how much he adored her—had gotten lost in the shuffle. Speaking aloud, Jules said, “I love you so much, Sweetheart. When you left me for heaven, you took a piece of my heart with you. Someday I will join you, and we will be one, again.”

But it was too late to say “I love you.” Martha had been gone for eight years, and Jules had been stuck in that grief, unwilling to let go. He had isolated himself from friends, family, the world. He told himself that he was honoring her memory by living in that grief, but deep down, he knew it was something else. Maybe fear. Fear of letting someone else in, fear of moving on, fear that, if he did, it would somehow erase Martha from his life. Fear of betraying her.

It was the picture on his nightstand that changed something for him one cold winter evening. The familiar photo, Martha’s eyes shining with love, spoke to him in a way it hadn’t in years. It was a bittersweet moment.

“I think you’d want me to move on, Martha,” Jules whispered, his voice barely audible. He felt a tear well up, but for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t the suffocating weight of grief he had grown accustomed to. Instead, there was a glimmer of something lighter, something warmer. Hope, maybe?

He sat down on the bed and stared at his laptop. He had never been one for technology, but months ago his daughter had set him up with an account on a website for older singles. He had ignored it, dismissing it as something for other people—people who were ready to love again. But now, something stirred within him. Was it time to let someone in? To share his life with someone new, someone who wasn’t Martha?

Tentatively, he logged in. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but after several weeks of scrolling through profiles and exchanging polite messages, he saw Millie, a widow. The words she used to describe herself danced and sang. She wrote, “I am opinionated, but a good listener. I love the outdoors and nature. I am looking for a man to share a cup of coffee and interesting conversation.”

Millie’s photo had a warmth that reminded Jules of summer days. She wasn’t beautiful in the way that Martha had been, but there was something undeniably attractive about her. She was rounder, with soft, white-blonde hair that framed her face, and her bright blue eyes sparkled with humor. Jules surmised that she had been through her own hardships, but her profile exuded a quiet strength that drew him in.

Knowing he was crossing a Rubicon, Jules “winked” at Millie, who quickly responded. He knew they had to meet.

Their first few dates had been cautious, tentative steps into the unknown. Jules had been nervous—he hadn’t dated anyone in over forty years—but Millie made him feel at ease. She laughed easily, told stories about her grown children, and asked him thoughtful questions that showed she was truly interested in getting to know him. There was no rush, no pressure. They were two people, both with their own scars, trying to see if life could offer them something new.

As the weeks passed, Jules and Millie became more comfortable with each other. While they enjoyed serious conversations - Millie was, as advertised, both opinionated and a very good listener - they were silly together, too.

On one date, Jules trotted out an old bowtie. Millie took one look and laughed out loud. “Oh, Jules, that bowtie looks so silly! You look like Charlie McCarthy, for heaven's sake!”

"Well, Millie, what can I say?" Jules answered, with an expansive, freewheeling happiness he hadn't felt in a long time. “I'm your puppet!"

They both laughed heartily and squeezed each other’s hands even more tightly. It was a special moment for Jules, a time to feel younger and even more at ease.

“I was so nervous when I first met you,” Millie admitted over dinner one night. They were at a small Italian restaurant, a place with checkered tablecloths and candles that flickered softly on each table. “I hadn’t been on a date in years. Not since my husband died.”

Jules looked up from his plate, his curiosity piqued. “You haven’t told me much about him,” he said gently. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but … I’d like to know.”

Millie smiled, though her eyes grew distant. “His name was David. We were married for 28 years. He died suddenly, a heart attack, right in front of me.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she pressed on. “One minute, he was sitting there, laughing about something silly I’d said, and the next, he was gone. Just like that. It was a nightmare I relive almost every day.”

Jules reached across the table and took her hand, feeling the weight of her words. “I’m sorry, Millie,” he said softly. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”

She squeezed his hand and nodded. “It was. I’m not sure I’ve ever really gotten over it. I find myself… assessing people, you know? Like, I’ll be talking to someone, and I’ll start thinking, ‘What if this person just dropped dead right now?’ It’s a terrible habit. I know it’s not healthy, but I can’t help it. It’s like I’m constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Jules understood that all too well. He had spent the last eight years waiting for something similar, afraid to let anyone in, afraid that if he did, he would lose them too. But with Millie, things had started to shift. He had started to feel like maybe, just maybe, there was room in his heart for someone new.

It had been nearly a year since they started seeing each other regularly. They took things slowly, meeting for coffee, dinners, and walks in the park. Jules found himself looking forward to their time together, a sense of comfort growing between them that he hadn’t expected. But they hadn’t been intimate—not yet. Jules had been nervous about taking that step, unsure if he was ready, unsure if it would feel like a betrayal of Martha.

But tonight, something felt different. They had spent the evening at Millie’s apartment, eating Chinese takeout from small white boxes, and laughing over old stories. As the night wore on, the laughter gave way to something quieter, something more intimate. Millie leaned in, her fingers brushing Jules’s arm, and he felt a warmth spread through him. It had been so long since he had felt this kind of connection, and for the first time, he didn’t feel guilty about it.

Millie stood and reached for his hand. “Come with me,” she whispered, leading him to her bedroom. Jules followed, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he trusted her. He trusted the connection they had built over the past year.

As they began to undress, Jules felt a strange mix of excitement and nervousness. He had been with other women since Martha’s death, but this felt different. This felt like the start of something real, something that could last.

And then, Millie slipped off her dress.

A wave of black silk cascaded to the floor, a bundle of something beige tangled up with it. Jules stared at it, not understanding, until a delicate cough made him raise his eyes. And there stood Millie before him, her chest flat and bare but for twin scars, stark against her chest.

Jules felt all the blood drain from his head, and he looked down again. It was a prosthetic, he realized. What? Millie had also had breast - Oh, no, he thought, panic rising inside him.

For a moment, all Jules could see was Martha. The memories of her illness, the surgeries, the scars, the way her body had been ravaged by cancer. His heart pounded, and he felt the walls of the room closing in on him. It was too much. The past and the present collided in a way that he hadn’t expected, hadn’t prepared for.

Millie’s eyes searched his face, her vulnerability laid bare before him. “Jules?” she asked, her voice soft, uncertain. “Are you okay?”

But he wasn’t okay. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All he could see was Martha, lying in that hospital bed, her body weak and frail, the life slowly draining from her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t … I can’t do this.”

Millie’s face fell, the hope that had flickered in her eyes now replaced with confusion, with hurt. "What do you mean?"

Jules felt his heart racing, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He had to get out of there. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t strong enough. As he departed, all Jules could say is “I’m sorry, so so sorry.” And then, “Goodnight, Millie.”

The moment he left Millie’s apartment, Jules knew he had made a mistake. He was angry at himself. The sound of her quiet sobs echoed in his ears as he hastily pulled on his clothes and rushed out the door. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t face her, couldn’t face the pain that seeing her scars had stirred up inside him.

By the time he reached his house, his body was trembling. He stumbled inside, collapsing onto the couch, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The silence of the room pressed down on him, as heavy and suffocating as it had been in those first days after Martha’s death.

His hands were shaking as he ran them through his hair, the memories of that night with Millie replaying in his mind over and over again. He could still see her face—her eyes, wide with hurt, her body standing there in front of him, exposed and brave. And all he had done was walk away.

"You’re a coward," he muttered to himself, the words bitter on his tongue. "You’re a goddamn coward."

He had spent so long running from his grief, burying it deep inside himself, but tonight it had come roaring back to the surface. He had thought he was ready to move on, thought he had finally found someone who could help him heal. But instead, he had hurt Millie, the one person who had been kind enough, patient enough, to try to understand him.

Jules sat on the couch, staring at the dimly lit room around him. The rain continued to patter against the windows, casting faint, rhythmic sounds through the otherwise stifling silence. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His thoughts spiraled, the image of Millie standing there, vulnerable and exposed, seared into his mind.

His chest tightened as he thought about the way he had walked out. He didn’t give her the words she needed. He didn’t give her anything, really. And now he had nothing but regret—a heavy, aching regret that lodged itself in his gut, twisting tighter with every breath. He had hurt Millie, someone who had only shown him kindness, patience, and understanding.

“You’re a damn fool,” he whispered again to himself, voice low and broken.

The following days were a blur of regret and self-loathing. Jules couldn’t stop thinking about Millie—her kindness, her warmth, the way she had looked at him with such vulnerability in that moment. He had let his fear, his grief, take control. He had pushed her away, just like he had pushed everyone else away after Martha’s death.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to call her, couldn’t bring himself to apologize. What could he even say? That he was sorry for being scared, for being overwhelmed? That he hadn’t been able to separate the past from the present? That he was still in love with a woman who had been dead for eight years?

Several weeks passed, and the weight of his decision began to bear down on him. One night, as he sat in his apartment, staring at the photo of Martha, he finally spoke aloud.

“I think you’d want me to move on,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I think you’d want me to be happy.”

He closed his eyes, picturing Martha’s face in his mind. She had been such a strong, loving woman, and he knew, deep down, that she wouldn’t want him to live the rest of his life alone. She would want him to find joy, to find love again.

Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe, if he could find the courage, he could make things right with Millie.

The next day, Jules tried to return to his routine, but everything felt off-kilter. His morning coffee tasted bitter, and the silence of the house, which had once been his refuge, now felt oppressive. The ticking of the old clock on the mantelpiece was too loud, a constant reminder of time slipping away—time he might never get back with Millie.

He thought about calling her, picking up the phone and trying to explain. But what would he say? How could he possibly explain his shameful reaction without making it worse? The truth was ugly, wrapped up in pain and guilt he wasn’t sure she could understand.

Days passed, each one blending into the next, and yet the weight of what had happened never left him. It settled on his chest like a heavy stone, making it hard to breathe.

Two weeks later Jules found himself standing outside Millie’s apartment building again, his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t warned her he was coming. He wasn’t even sure she would want to see him after the way he had left things. But he couldn’t go on like this, trapped in his own grief and regret. He needed to face her, to give her the truth, even if it meant she would never want to see him again.

The autumn air was crisp, carrying with it the smell of damp earth and falling leaves. Jules adjusted his coat, trying to steady his hands, but the nerves refused to subside. He took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer for her apartment.

There was a long pause, the kind of pause that made Jules wonder if she was deliberately ignoring him. His thumb hovered over the buzzer again when the intercom crackled to life.

"Jules?" Millie’s voice was quiet, cautious.

"It’s me," he replied, his voice a little rougher than he intended. "Can I come up?"

There was another long pause, and Jules’ heart sank. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he had lost his chance to make things right.

But then, the door buzzed open.

Millie opened the door to her apartment, her expression guarded, as if she wasn’t sure what to expect. Jules stood there, the same man she had grown close to, but there was a weight in his eyes now, a heaviness that hadn’t been there before. She stepped aside and let him in, the air between them thick with unspoken words.

The apartment looked just as it had the last time he was here, except now the warmth that had once filled the space felt distant, muted.

Millie crossed her arms, standing by the window, her body language closed off, protective. She hadn’t expected to hear from him again. She had hoped, of course, but after two weeks of silence, she had started to let go of the idea that he would come back.

“What are you doing here, Jules?” she asked, her voice steady, though her hazel eyes betrayed a flicker of vulnerability.

Jules took a deep breath, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as he stood awkwardly by the door. "I needed to see you. I needed to explain."

"Explain what?" Millie asked, her brow furrowing. "Why you walked out? Why you left me standing there, exposed, without a word?"

Her voice wasn’t angry, but there was hurt beneath it, a rawness that cut Jules to the core. He deserved that. He deserved every ounce of pain he had caused her.

"I was scared," Jules admitted, his voice low. "Not of you, but of what you … reminded me of. What I’ve been running from for years."

Millie didn’t say anything, but her eyes softened, just a little.

"I haven’t really told you much about Martha," Jules continued, feeling the words come out in a rush. "We were married for over 30 years. She … she died of breast cancer. It was long and slow, and I watched her suffer in ways I can’t even begin to explain. Seeing her go through that—it broke me, Millie. I thought I had moved on, that I was ready to start again, but when I saw your scars … it was like being back in that hospital room, watching her fade away."

Millie’s arms loosened slightly, though she didn’t move from her spot by the window.

"I know that’s no excuse for what I did," Jules said, his voice thick with emotion. "But I panicked. I saw your strength, your vulnerability, and I realized how weak I still was. I ran because I didn’t know how to deal with it. I’m so sorry."

For a moment, Millie didn’t speak. The room was filled with the soft hum of the city outside, the occasional sound of traffic passing by. Jules watched her, waiting for her response, not sure if he should brace himself for her to tell him to leave and never come back.

But when she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, gentler than he expected. "I understand, Jules. More than you might think."

He blinked, surprised. "You do?"

Millie nodded, turning to face him fully now. "You know I lost my husband too. A sudden heart attack. One minute he was fine, and the next, he was gone. There was no warning, no time to say goodbye. I spent years after that trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out how to keep living without him. So, yes, I understand grief, and I understand how it can make you run from things. But I also know that you can’t keep running forever."

Her words hung in the air between them, filled with a quiet strength that Jules had always admired about her.

"I’m not asking you to be over Martha," Millie said softly. "I would never expect that. I don’t know if I am over Dave.  But I need to know if you’re ready to let me in, to let yourself love someone again, despite the pain."

Jules felt the weight of her words settle deep inside him. He had been running for so long, using Martha’s memory as both a shield and a prison. He had convinced himself that moving on was impossible, that to love again would somehow betray the life he had shared with her. But maybe Millie was right. Maybe love didn’t erase grief. Maybe it coexisted with it, made room for both the joy of new beginnings and the sorrow of what was lost.

"I don’t know if I’m ready," Jules said honestly, his voice barely a whisper. "But I want to try. If you’ll give me that chance."

Millie studied him for a long moment, her hazel eyes searching his, weighing his words, his sincerity. Then, slowly, she crossed the room, closing the distance between them.

"You’ve already had your chance, Jules," she said softly, her voice steady but tender. "And I’m still here."

Several minutes passed as Jules and Millie sat silently, holding each other’s hands, feeling the warmth of their palms. Jules felt renewed, as if something inside him had shifted. The blanket of dark clouds that had enveloped his mind for so long started to part, and rays of sunlight began to appear. A sense of peace washed over him, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

When Millie smiled softly, a flicker of hope in her eyes, Jules knew, for the first time, that good days still lay ahead. He squeezed her hand gently, and in that moment, he realized that life, despite its scars, could still offer moments of light and warmth, and love.

Sitting close to Millie, Jules briefly pictured Martha in his mind’s eye. “Thank you, Martha,” Jules whispered to himself, “I will always love you, but I’m ready to move on.”

---