Sometime -

The "it" in question was a mahogany desk tucked away in the corner of his attic, covered in a fine layer of dust that had become its own kind of upholstery. Beneath that dust lay a collection of half-finished sketches and a typewriter that hadn't felt the strike of a key in years.

The first word was clunky. The second was worse. But by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the paper was no longer white. It was messy, flawed, and absolutely real. Arthur leaned back, his neck aching and his fingers stained with ink, and finally understood: "Sometime" had arrived, and it looked exactly like "now." sometime

The clock on the wall didn't just tick; it felt like it was counting down toward a deadline that didn't exist. "Sometime," Arthur always told himself. "I'll get to it sometime." The "it" in question was a mahogany desk

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

One afternoon, a sharp gust of wind caught the attic window, rattling it in its frame and knocking a small, faded photograph from the wall. It was Arthur at twenty-four, grinning at a camera held by someone whose name he had almost forgotten, standing in front of a half-finished bridge.

He reached out and blew the dust off the carriage. It puffed into the air, a miniature storm of forgotten Saturdays. He rolled in a fresh sheet of paper—crisp, white, and terrifyingly blank.

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