Old Lopin

 [Journal Entry – Date Unknown]

I heard someone mention Old Lopin today.

 Whispers, mostly. I wasn’t even sure they were talking to me. Maybe they weren’t.

Two mechanics, half-drunk on modified synthwine, were arguing over which version used to “wake you up for real.”

One of them said, “You haven’t had real Lopin unless it cracked your chest open.”

The other just laughed like that was the most ridiculous truth.

I didn’t join the conversation. I just kept my hands wrapped around my own cup. It was warm, not hot.

The label said “Lopin – Neural Calm Formula.”

They all say something like that now.

I don’t know what Old Lopin tasted like.

Some people say it made you remember things you’d buried.

Others say it let you imagine futures that felt too sharp, too possible.

A pilot once said it made the stars feel like they were inside your lungs.

Whatever it was, it scared the right people.

So they took it. Boiled it down. Bottled the quiet.

Now it just slows you down. Makes the silence softer.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe they didn’t want us imagining anymore. Maybe this is the reason I thought I saw her.

I drank mine anyway. I always do.

But tonight it lingered on the back of my tongue like something unfinished.

Something forgotten.