june gloom

“Time is the greatest distance between two places.”

The people I feel farthest from aren’t the ones living across the world, but the ones I haven’t spoken to in years. Time stretches the space between us more than miles ever could.

We live by the clock. There's no escaping it.

And June is moving like it’s got somewhere to be. The longest day of the year already came and went. Before the heat set in, clouds blanketed the sky day after day. It reminded me of my first time in LA.

They called it June Gloom.

Ten years ago, we visited family in Manhattan Beach. We rode beach cruisers through sleepy streets and coastal bike trails, ran early mornings down to Hermosa, and coasted north toward Santa Monica. When we got to Venice Beach, the sun came out like it had something to prove.

The girls drove down from The Bay and met us at the pier. We laid out on the beach, talked, and laughed. They were easy to be around—bright, like the serendipitous break in the clouds.

We said our goodbyes by dinner. No one really remembers the ride back to The Strand. That night, we had homemade cordon bleu and played music through the house speakers. Then we watched in stunned silence as Jon Snow was betrayed by his brothers in black. No dessert. Just deserts.

The next day, we baked in the sun at the Angels game. That night, we found ourselves at a Joey Bada$$ show in Hollywood. These were the summer nights we lived for.

It was the first trip I ever paid for myself. I was naive, but eager. “I have to see California,” I told myself.

And I did.

But LA feels so far away now. Because time, more than distance, is what really separates us—it’s the space between moments, between people, between who we were then and who we are now.

Time passes. Memories fade. But the feeling stays.