Everyone has a story, and most of it isn’t interesting.
Very little of what was spoken between them remains in his memory except a prediction: That ten years later she was bound to be impressed by the person he’d become. It’s been nine years since they’ve spoken, but for all the words he could have held on to, those are the words he decided to carry with him.
So much had been given to him at such an early age that it never occurred to him to ever be grateful for what he had. But now, today, it’s back. Most of what he lost had returned. And with it, reflection. A look back on all that’s happened. The parts he can remember. How desperate he had become. How little he had. How much time has passed. How much he’s gained through the process of becoming. “I wonder what she’d think of me now? I wonder what she’d think of my story?”
As with any story, how much of it do you share? And whose sake are you sharing it for?