There are stories we write with plot, and stories we write with silence. Comings and Goings: The Art of Being Seen is one of the latter.
Set in 1980s Boston, this short story follows Jim, a nineteen-year-old who walks into a party already knowing he doesn’t belong—and walks out changed in ways he’ll never quite put into words. What begins with a half-warm beer and a forgotten ABBA song quietly unfolds into a night of unexpected connection, where music becomes memory, and intimacy arrives not through grand gestures but through small, human acts of grace.
This isn’t a love story in the usual sense. It’s not about forever. It’s about a moment—a single, quiet moment that lingers long after the stereo’s been switched off.
Where Reunion: Coda closed the curtain on an earlier chapter of Jim’s life, Comings and Goings gently reopens it—not to rewrite the past, but to acknowledge its echoes. It’s a spiritual descendant of Summer of ’42, but with its emotional gaze turned inward. Jim is older than Hermie. And Kelly—the young woman who sees him when he can’t quite see himself—is no mythologized mystery. She’s present. Assured. Real. The result is a story not about awakening through loss, but about the quiet courage it takes to stay—in a moment, in your skin, in someone else’s trust.
The following excerpt appears in the finished short story as a quiet companion: a postscript from Kelly’s point of view. It doesn’t overwrite Jim’s memory—it illuminates it. Where he experienced awe, she offered presence. Where he feared not being enough, she already understood that he was.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
I nodded.
“Why… why did you do this? With me?”
His voice trembled—not with doubt, but with wonder. Maybe awe. Like he couldn’t believe I’d chosen him as he was.
I didn’t need a speech.
“Because I like you,” I said. “Because I needed to. And… because I think you needed this, too.”
Appendix
A Page from Kelly’s Memory
The night meant something to him. It meant something to her too. Maybe not in the same way. But just enough to keep her present when it mattered.
Soft Light, Quiet Courage (Kelly’s Perspective)
The stereo had gone still just after midnight. I’d clicked it off—technically for the neighbors, but mostly because the music didn’t feel necessary anymore. The room didn’t need filling. It was already full—with breath, with pulse, with whatever unnamed thing had just passed between us.
He held me like he wasn’t sure I’d still be there if he blinked. One hand rested close to mine, the other hovered like he didn’t trust it yet. His body was warm but uncertain—like he’d stepped through a door he wasn’t sure he was allowed to open.
I stayed still. Let the quiet do its work. I could feel his thoughts turning behind his ribs.
“You’re not sorry we—” I asked gently, not finishing it.
His answer came slow, hushed. “No. Not at all. I just… I wish I’d been better at this. The first time, I— I barely lasted a minute.”
He wasn’t ashamed. Just honest. Like he was offering something he didn’t quite know how to hold.
“I expected that would happen,” I said, keeping my voice soft but steady. “This was your first time with a girl, right?”
He nodded, barely looking up.
I brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Then kissed it. Not to reassure. Just to stay with him.
“Then it was perfect,” I told him. “You were kind. You were here. That’s what matters.”
And it did. All of it.
He looked like he was breathing a little easier then. Still braced, maybe. But softer.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
I nodded.
“Why… why did you do this? With me?”
His voice trembled—not with doubt, but with wonder. Maybe awe. Like he couldn’t believe I’d chosen him as he was.
I didn’t need a speech.
“Because I like you,” I said. “Because I needed to. And… because I think you needed this, too.”
That was all. That was everything.
He didn’t answer, not with words. But the way his hand gripped mine told me he understood.
I let the silence wrap around us again. And I stayed.
Because he had.
Comings and Goings: The Art of Being Seen releases Summer 2025.
Sometimes, the most lasting music plays after the record ends.
A Certain Point of View, Too 
You must be logged in to post a comment.