In Conclusion

They had picked the booth because it was still there.

That was the first thing Jonah noticed when he walked into Murphy’s Diner—the chipped vinyl seat by the window, the wobble in the table, the faint smell of burnt coffee that never quite left the place. Everything else had been updated in the way old places pretended to be new: sleeker menus, a chalkboard with artisanal nonsense written in looping handwriting, Edison bulbs hanging like they were trying too hard to be nostalgic.

But the booth? The booth had survived.

“Do you remember…” Jonah said, sliding in and pressing his palm against the tabletop, “…when this thing almost collapsed because we were both leaning on it trying to whisper answers before a psych exam?”

Across from him, Eli laughed, that same sharp bark of a laugh that always sounded like it surprised even him. “Almost? Buddy, that table did collapse. The waitress just pretended it didn’t.”

They sat there for a moment, grinning like idiots, two men in their late thirties dressed in sensible jackets and decent shoes, suddenly feeling like college kids again just because they were back where it all began.

The waitress came over—too young to remember them, of course—and took their order. Coffee for both. Pie for Jonah. Pie and fries for Eli, because some things never changed.

When she left, Eli leaned back, crossed his arms, and studied Jonah with mock seriousness. “Okay. Be honest. How long have you been waiting to drag me back here and force me into a nostalgia spiral?”

Jonah shrugged. “Since the reunion email hit my inbox. This felt safer than walking around campus and pretending the dorms didn’t get smaller.”

Eli snorted. “They did get smaller. That’s not nostalgia—that’s science.”

They clinked coffee mugs when they arrived, the sound oddly ceremonial, and Jonah took a sip before speaking again.

“Do you remember when you tricked Dr. Barth to give you an A on a half-assed essay because you were feeling lazy?” Jonah said, eyes already crinkling.

Eli groaned. “Oh no. You’re starting with that?”

“You numbered your paper Page 4 and wrote, ‘In conclusion…’ and carried on to the last line as if you wrote one whole paper! Dr. Barth was forced to give you an A because she thought she had misplaced the first three pages of your essay!”

Eli buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe that still haunts me.”

Jonah was laughing too hard to care. “Haunts you? It should be taught in classes. That was performance art.”

“It was desperation,” Eli corrected. “Pure, caffeinated, sleep-deprived desperation.”

That essay had been due during midterms week, the kind of academic gauntlet that left students pale and hollow-eyed, subsisting on vending machine food and misplaced confidence. Jonah remembered it vividly—Eli sprawled across his dorm room floor, surrounded by books he hadn’t opened, staring at his laptop like it had personally betrayed him.

“I just… can’t,” Eli had said back then. “I physically can’t write eight pages about postmodern narrative theory. I refuse.”

“And instead,” Jonah said now, “you committed fraud.”

“Creative problem-solving,” Eli said defensively. “Very different.”

The pie arrived, and Jonah dug in, still shaking his head. “I remember you pacing the hall afterward, convinced you were going to be expelled.”

“I was going to be expelled. Dr. Barth terrified me. She wore scarves like punctuation marks.”

“That woman could silence a lecture hall just by raising an eyebrow,” Jonah agreed. “But she also wrote ‘Excellent conclusion!’ on your paper.”

Eli sighed dreamily. “God bless her.”

They fell into a comfortable quiet, punctuated only by the scrape of forks and the low hum of conversation around them. It wasn’t awkward silence—it was the kind that came from knowing someone long enough that words felt optional.

Jonah broke it first.

“Do you remember orientation week?” he asked. “When you tried to convince everyone you were from New Zealand?”

Eli’s eyes lit up. “It worked for three days.”

“Because no one wanted to be rude enough to question it,” Jonah said. “You were giving fake facts about sheep population.”

“I did my research,” Eli said proudly. “That’s commitment.”

Orientation week had been chaos—overcrowded auditoriums, forced icebreakers, the smell of new textbooks and panic. Jonah had arrived early, nervous and alone, clutching a campus map he pretended to understand.

Eli had strolled in late, hair uncombed, confidence weaponized.

“You look like you know where you’re going,” Eli had said, dropping his bag next to Jonah.

“I absolutely do not,” Jonah replied.

“Perfect. We’ll be lost together.”

That had been it. That had been the start.

“Do you remember the first time we skipped class?” Jonah asked.

Eli smiled, softer now. “Ethics 101. Irony at its finest.”

They had gone to the river instead, sat on the grass with cheap sandwiches, talking about everything except the consequences of their choices. Jonah remembered thinking, This is what freedom feels like. Not skipping class—but choosing someone to sit beside.

“Do you remember how sure we were that we’d have everything figured out by graduation?” Jonah said.

Eli laughed, but there was a hitch in it this time. “Yeah. I thought I’d be famous by twenty-five.”

“Doing what?”

“Something important. Or at least loud.”

Jonah nodded. “I thought I’d be married.”

“And?”

Jonah shrugged. “Life took the scenic route.”

Eli raised his mug. “Cheers to detours.”

They drank.

Outside, the afternoon light slanted across the window, and Jonah felt that familiar ache—the one that came from holding too many versions of himself at once. The kid he had been. The man he was now. The in-between years full of almosts.

“Do you remember senior year,” Eli said quietly, “when everything started feeling… real?”

Jonah did. He remembered job applications and final projects, the way laughter came easier but stayed shorter, like everyone was already half gone.

“I remember thinking I’d lose everyone,” Jonah admitted. “That we’d all just… scatter.”

“And yet,” Eli said, gesturing between them, “here we are. Same booth. Worse backs.”

Jonah smiled. “You’re still terrible at chairs.”

“Some battles I choose not to fight.”

The fries were gone now. The pie reduced to crumbs. The coffee cold.

Neither of them rushed to leave.

“Do you remember,” Jonah said, voice softer now, “the night before graduation?”

Eli’s gaze drifted to the window. “Yeah. We sat on the dorm roof. Watched the lights.”

They had talked until dawn—about fear, about hope, about who they thought they were supposed to be. Jonah had confessed he didn’t feel ready. Eli had admitted he was terrified of being ordinary.

“I think,” Eli said now, “that was the first time I realized friendship isn’t about proximity. It’s about choosing to come back.”

Jonah nodded. “You always were the philosopher. When you weren’t committing academic crimes.”

Eli grinned. “Balance.”

They stood eventually, leaving a few bills on the table, pausing to look at the booth one last time.

“Do you remember…” Eli said, stopping Jonah at the door.

Jonah turned.

“…how lucky we were?”

Jonah swallowed, then smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

And for a moment—just a moment—it felt like nothing had been lost at all.