Always Here
The fog rolled in from Puget Sound like an old secret, shrouding the city in its gray embrace. Seattle, as usual, was wet, but not in the way a city with bright sunshine might be. It was the wetness of something that had been waiting too long to dry out. It seemed to cling to the streets, to the people, to the very air itself, and Henry, who had lived here all his life, felt it more keenly than anyone, this dampness that permeated his heart just as it did the sidewalks of Capitol Hill.
At 28, Henry had long given up the idea of becoming a musician the way he once imagined. He wasn’t going to be the next Kurt Cobain, the tortured soul who bled melodies that broke the world open. He wasn’t going to tour the country, playing his heart out in smoky bars, making records that people would talk about for decades to come. He wasn’t even playing much anymore. He spent his days at a shabby cafe off Broadway, strumming an acoustic guitar between shifts, picking up orders and daydreaming about a life he no longer believed was possible.
A year ago, he had received an offer from a small record label, a whisper of opportunity that promised to change everything. They liked his demos, they liked his sound, but when it came time to sign the contract, something in Henry faltered. The promise of fame, of a life lived on the edge of something brilliant, seemed too distant. What would it take to reach that, and more importantly, what would he lose?
He could still hear the faintest notes of the songs he used to write, the ones that had once thrilled him into frenzy, ones he had played in his mind over and over as a teenager, convinced they would be his ticket out of Seattle, out of this world he no longer understood, but now, they seemed like ghosts, not the exciting, electric kind that would surge through his veins and carry him to new heights, but the kind that haunt you, leaving you wondering if you had imagined them at all…
… and so, Henry stayed. He stayed in the same worn down apartment in Capitol Hill, where he had been for the better part of a decade, where the cracks in the wall had grown deeper, and the loneliness seemed to seep in through every crack, just like the rain outside. He stayed because he didn’t know where else to go. He stayed because the thought of stepping away from Seattle, of leaving this city he knew so well, its rain, its coffee shops, its dimly lit bars where the air always smelled of stale beer, was a terror he couldn’t face.
Tonight, he found himself sitting at his usual spot in the cafe, a cup of cold coffee in front of him, his guitar resting across his lap like a lover he had grown weary of. The evening light filtered in through the windows, pale and distant, as if the world outside had already turned its back on him. He hadn’t written a new song in months, but tonight, as the sky darkened outside and the familiar hum of conversation filled the room, something stirred within him. The thoughts came slow, like the fog rolling across the bay.
He was no closer to understanding himself than he had been at 18, when he first arrived at the University of Washington, full of hope and untested dreams. His friends had all moved on, some had families, some had careers in the city’s tech industry, some were simply comfortable in a way he had never been, and then there was Henry, still playing the same songs in his bedroom, still struggling to get a gig at the local dive bar, still hanging on to a dream that felt more like a joke than anything.
"Henry, you’ve been here long enough," he said aloud, his voice barely rising above the chatter. He wasn’t talking to anyone in particular, just to himself. "You’ve been here long enough."
The words tasted bitter. The city, with its constant dampness, had kept him trapped. He hadn’t known it at the time, but the wet streets and familiar faces had come to symbolize the life he had failed to make for himself. He was, in every way that mattered, stuck.
The decision had come unexpectedly, not in a rush, but in the quiet of his own reflection, as if he had been waiting for the right moment to understand something that had been staring him in the face. He didn’t need to play a sold out show in Madison Square Garden or have a platinum record. He just needed to stop pretending that it was still possible, and that was the hardest part, letting go of the idea of what he could have been, of what he wasn’t.
Tomorrow, he would send in his application to the small college in Portland. It wasn’t a grand move, wasn’t the kind of decision that would make him stand out in a crowd, but it was the right one. It was the one that, for the first time, didn’t feel like giving up, but instead like growing up.
The fog had thickened outside the cafe, and Henry stood, stretching his stiff legs. He was tired, tired of hoping, tired of wishing, tired of doing the same thing every day and expecting a different outcome. He pulled on his jacket, and as he stepped outside, the cool Seattle air hit him like a wave, sharp and cleansing. The city loomed before him, as familiar as an old friend, and yet it felt foreign, somehow, as if he had outgrown it.
Henry walked down the street, heading toward a spot he’d visited countless times, Kerry Park, where he would sit and look out over the skyline, where he had gone to dream, but tonight, he wasn’t going there to dream. He wasn’t going there to fantasize about a future he no longer believed in. He was going to sit in the same place, but this time, with the quiet knowledge that he was leaving the city behind, not because it had failed him, but because he had failed it, and in that failure, he realized, there was something oddly beautiful.
He reached the park and stood for a moment, looking out over the city. The lights of Seattle flickered in the distance, soft and hazy, as if the city itself was blinking against the weight of the fog. He wasn’t running away. He was simply stepping forward, away from a life he had clung to for too long…
… but tonight, for the first time in years, Henry allowed himself to stand there, taking in the city that had been both his prison and his home, the lights of Seattle flickering softly as dusk settled over the skyline, and then, as if on cue, the tears came, quiet at first, then flooding, an unburdening he hadn't known he needed. He cried not just for the dreams he’d chased, the ones that had slipped through his grasp, but for the years he’d spent locked in a struggle that never seemed to bring him closer to the life he imagined.
He sat there, letting himself weep, feeling the weight of it, the loneliness, the stagnation, the quiet ache of watching everyone he once knew move on, build lives in places he’d never been. They were hidden now, behind the windows of skyscrapers or somewhere far away, starting lives of their own, and for a moment, he wondered if they ever thought of him, if they felt that same strange, lingering loss, not of a person, but of a time, a feeling, something they couldn’t quite grasp anymore.
The past, as they say, can never be returned to, but standing here, in the stillness of Kerry Park, Henry felt something shift. He was leaving. For the first time, he wasn’t just leaving behind a place that had been home for so long, he was leaving behind a version of himself, the hopeful, naive version of the boy who once believed the world could be different. The city, like him, had changed, but for the first time in a long while, he realized he didn’t need to look back. Portland awaited. College awaited. The future was unknown, yes, but it was something he could walk into, however uncertain, without the weight of this city holding him back.
As the last traces of sunlight vanished and the city lights began to glow beneath the gray sky, Henry stood, not with the sadness of loss, but with the quiet hope of something new. He would never return to Seattle the same way again, but maybe, just maybe, that was the point.