Two Clocks

I have two clocks on my phone. One shows my time. One shows hers.

Zoe lives in Sydney. I'm in Leeds. Nine hours apart, which means when I'm having breakfast, she's wrapping up her day. When I'm falling asleep, she's waking up. We found a window, two hours where both of us were free. We called them "our hours."

We lasted fourteen months. Not bad for two people with an ocean between them and WiFi that dropped every time it mattered.

She ended it kindly. "It's not that I stopped loving you. It's that I stopped having a life that has space for a screen."

I understood it. I hated that I understood it.

The thing is, I never deleted the second clock. It's there on my home screen. Sydney: 7:42 PM. Sydney: 8:15 PM. I check it without thinking, like a reflex. "She's eating dinner now." "She's probably at the beach." "It's her birthday. Already."

Last week I woke up at 4 AM, groggy, and glanced at it by habit. Sydney: 1:03 PM.

I smiled. She'd be out for lunch.

Then I got a text. A single photo. A flat white with a heart in the foam, and a small, sunny café table.

"Thought of you. It's the lunchtime of our hours."

She'd looked at her clock too.

Nine hours apart. Two different days.

And somehow, we both kept the same time.