Tag: dailyprompt-1892

Time folds like seaweed,
Wrapped in rice and memory.
Bitterness, salt, and a hint of sweetness.

---

The sushi bar was new—sleek, warm, the hum of soft jazz just barely rising over the hush of a conveyor belt that moved like time itself. Plates passed, delicate and precise, each one a quiet offering.

He sat across from me. Older now. A little grayer. Sharper around the edges. But still—beneath the lines and pauses—there was the shape of who we used to be. Two broke students once convinced that ordering sushi was for people who had figured life out.

Back then, sushi was a rumor in Ljubljana. Exotic. Unreachable. Something you saw in movies, not menus. We’d stretch a single espresso for hours, sharing cigarettes and dreams we didn’t quite believe in.

Tonight, there were no toasts. No photos. Just quiet honesty.

He told me about the miscarriage.
I told him about the divorce.
He spoke of his father’s fading.
I nodded, tracing the rim of a tea cup.

We passed grief across the table like soy sauce. Small portions. Just enough.

And then—midway through the fourth plate, between unspoken things and plates we couldn’t name—he asked,

“So… what still makes you laugh?”

It hit like wasabi. Clean. Piercing. Real.

I thought of that professor who used to fall asleep during our oral exams.
The eggs we fried on a radiator and ate anyway.
That night dancing in Metelkova, soaked and staggering, certain nothing could ever really hurt us.

And I said,

“Honestly? This. You. Me. And this conveyor belt pretending we’re not slowly turning into our fathers.”

He laughed. I did too.

Not loudly. But deeply.

The kind of laugh that rests in your bones long after.

Not because anything was funny.
But because we were still here.

---

Laughter isn’t the absence of pain.
It’s what rises through the cracks.
It’s the quiet rebellion of still being human.

Some friendships don’t fade—they just grow quieter, truer.

And sometimes the best question isn’t “How are you?”

It’s “What still makes you laugh?”

Time folds like seaweed,
wrapped in rice and memory.
Bitterness, salt, and a hint of sweetness.

---

The sushi bar was new, sleek, and humming quietly under warm yellow lights. A conveyor belt whispered past our elbows, carrying tiny colored plates like offerings in a silent ceremony.

He sat across from me, older now. His face more defined. Life had sanded down the softness in both of us. Still, the outline of our younger selves flickered beneath the surface—two students once too broke to dream of raw tuna, let alone order it without flinching at the price.

Back then, sushi in Ljubljana was almost mythical. You didn’t eat it. You just heard about it. From exchange students. From Tokyo-drenched films. From the sort of cafés where you sipped one espresso for three hours just to stay warm.

Tonight, we didn’t toast. There were no celebrations. Just the quiet ritual of two old friends sitting across a table in a city that had changed less than we had.

---

He told me about the miscarriage.
I told him about the divorce.
He spoke of his father’s slow unraveling.
I nodded, my fingers brushing the ceramic edge of a green tea cup.

We passed grief across the table like soy sauce. Small portions. Just enough.
It wasn’t sad—not in the traditional sense. It was human.

There’s a strange intimacy in aging with someone you once shared cheap beer and existential dread with. You see how time hasn’t just passed, but shaped you. Softened your edges. Blurred the absolutes.

Somewhere between the third and fourth plate—salmon nigiri and a roll we couldn’t quite name—he leaned back and smiled, a tired, knowing thing.

Then he asked:
“So… what still makes you laugh?”

---

It hit me like a sudden flash of wasabi. Sharp. Strange. Necessary.

I thought of the old professor who used to fall asleep during our oral exams, head tipping forward like a collapsing tower.
Of the time we tried to fry eggs on the radiator in the dorm kitchen, failed miserably, and still ate them.
Of that night in Metelkova, dancing in the rain, drunk on cheap wine and the illusion that nothing could ever really touch us.

---

Wabi-Sabi and the Space Between Laughter

Laughter isn’t the absence of pain.
It’s what rises quietly through the cracks.

It lives in the absurdity of survival.
The irony of still being here, still breathing, after all the storms we swore would end us.
It’s a cracked mirror reflecting something human back at us—flawed, awkward, and strangely beautiful.

---

I looked at him, still smiling.
And I answered:

“Honestly? This. Right now. You. Me. And this goddamn conveyor belt pretending we’re not slowly turning into our fathers.”

We both laughed.
Not loudly.
But real.

The kind of laugh that sits in your chest for hours after, like warm sake.
Not because anything was funny.
But because we were still here.

---

Lessons Between the Plates

• Time doesn’t heal all things, but it softens them.
• Friendship is the space where grief and laughter can sit at the same table.
• The older we get, the more precious the absurd becomes.
• And sometimes, the best question isn’t “how are you?”
  It’s simply:
  “What still makes you laugh?”