“Don’t be. We both lived good lives. We loved good people. But this… this is our time now.”
Later that evening, I asked him how he had come up with the idea.
He smiled warmly.
“You mentioned it once,” he said. “Just casually. You said you regretted never going to prom. And I thought—why not? Why can’t we have it now?”
I looked at him, at the man who had spent months secretly planning this moment just to make me happy.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?” he asked.
I answered softly,
“For reminding me that it’s never too late for second chances.”
At seventy-one years old, I finally went to prom.
And it was perfect.
Love doesn’t come back.
It waits.
And when you’re finally ready for it again, it’s still there—exactly where you left it.
