Meet In The Sixties - By Rossalyn Francess S. Raymundo

Written By: Rossalyn Francess S.Raymundo

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Rossalyn Francess S. Raymundo presents "Meet In The Sixties," a captivating short story submitted to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This narrative intricately weaves themes of love, distance, and identity, capturing the reader's imagination with its evocative storytelling. Through the lens of characters navigating their own realities while yearning for connection, Raymundo invites readers into a world where the lines between past and present blur, revealing the timeless nature of human emotion.

About the Work

"Meet In The Sixties" explores the tender complexities of unnoticed affection and the quiet architecture of coincidence. Raymundo's narrative style is rich with detailed imagery and emotional depth, creating a vivid tapestry of longing and introspection. The story navigates the spaces between reality and fantasy, capturing the delicate dance of two souls tethered by an unspoken bond, yearning for a world where they can truly belong to each other without fear.

Meet In The Sixties

Original Submission by Rossalyn Francess S.Raymundo

Meet Me in the Sixties

A Short Story

Author: Rossalyn Francess S. Raymundo (Philippines)

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I. The Architecture of Coincidence

The ambient hush of the workspace was carved open only by the low, rhythmic hum of fluorescent lights and the faint, melancholic strings of Stelvio Cipriani’s 'Mary’s Theme' bleeding from Javier’s over-ear headphones. Dark-complexioned, slightly stocky, with a light stubble framing his jaw, Javier sat squarely behind his sleek desk. His thick black-rimmed glasses reflected the pale glow of his laptop screen, his fingers moving across the keyboard in a sharp, absorbed cadence.

Then, the air shifted.

Across the wide linoleum expanse, a woman crossed his field of vision. She walked with quiet purpose, fair-skinned with striking red hair that caught the ambient overhead glow. She wore a black top tucked into a green skirt, draped beneath an unbuttoned rust-colored trench coat that swayed with every step. Her black high heels struck the floor in a precise, rhythmic click.

Javier’s fingers slowed over the keys. Without lifting his head, he tilted his chin down slightly, peering upward over the heavy rims of his glasses to track her path. She passed by completely oblivious—or seemingly so—until she reached a solitary chair on the far right side of the room. She sat down, angling her back sharply toward him, uncapped a fountain pen, and began writing furiously into a small leather-bound notebook.

Javier slipped the headphones down around his neck. The melancholic strings flooded his ears, filling the quiet void between them.

He thought about the architecture of coincidence. How a person could walk into a room you had occupied a hundred times before, and suddenly the walls felt drawn differently. The light changed its hue. You found yourself measuring time not in hours or minutes, but in the precise cadence of black heels striking floorboards.

Was he in love with her? He couldn't say. Was it love when you had never heard the exact timbre of someone’s laughter, but had already mapped the precise shade of rust in her coat against the gray of a Tuesday morning? Perhaps it wasn't love. Perhaps it was simply the quiet tragedy of noticing everything about someone who noticed nothing about you. But when she was in the room, the noise of the universe stopped. Everything else dissolved into background radiation.

Unable to remain still, Javier pushed his chair back. The metallic scrape of the legs echoed softly. He stood, adjusted his glasses, and took a few hesitant steps toward her. Hovering awkward and hesitant behind her chair, he cleared his throat with a deliberate, nervous 'ahem.'

She didn't flinch. Her pen continued its swift, steady glide across the crisp paper.

Flustered by his own lack of nerve, Javier paced two restless steps left, turned on his heel, and retreated to his desk. Sinking into his chair, he pulled his headphones back over his ears.

The moment he settled, Francine quietly stopped writing. Without turning around, she slipped a small compact mirror from her trench coat pocket. Snapping it open at eye level, she pretended to adjust her posture, but the sharp angle of the glass caught Javier’s reflection behind her. A subtle, soft smile touched the corners of her lips.

Closing the mirror, Francine stood up. She turned slowly, her eyes reflecting a warm, unreserved clarity.

His name was Javier, and in the quietest pocket of her heart, she loved him. She loved how he submerged himself beneath those giant headphones, as if the outer world were too loud for whatever fragile universe he was building in his head. She loved the hesitation in his steps—how he worked up the courage to approach her only to lose his nerve at a simple throat-clear and hurry back to his desk. He believed himself invisible behind those thick frames, an unseen observer mapping out her life without leaving a footprint.

He had no idea that every time he looked up over his glasses, she was watching him right back.

Glancing at him once more, Francine sat down and resumed writing. Seeing her return to her work, Javier took off his headphones, set them on the wood, and stood up. His movements were soft, almost ethereal as he crossed the room.

He stopped directly behind her chair. Francine continued to write, lost in the rhythmic scratching of her pen. Javier lingered for a breath. Reverently, he extended his hand toward her rich red hair hanging over the back of the chair. He lifted a soft lock between his fingers, cradling its weight, feeling its warmth slip gently through his skin—helpless against the simple, electric truth of touching her.

II. Distances and Digital Ghosts

There was a specific kind of stillness Javier found only on two wheels. Under the pale amber light of early morning, he rode his road bike along long, parallel stretches of open asphalt. In full, streamlined cycling gear—helmet, jersey, dark riding glasses—his feet moved in steady, measured turns.

He unclipped one shoe at a crossroads, coming to a rest facing the wide horizon. Lifting his riding glasses, he breathed in the cool air.

People often asked him why he rode. They assumed it was about distance, speed, or burning off the day's friction. But he had never felt more fiercely alive than when moving through the open air. Every stroke of the pedals possessed a direction. With every push of his heels, he wasn't merely covering ground; he was pedaling closer to her. It mattered little which road he chose—east, west, or uphill against the wind. In his mind, the route had only one programmed destination: wherever she was, and the quiet space inside her heart.

Miles away, bathed in warm studio light, Francine stood before a selfie stand and a ring light. Dressed in a fitted black outfit, holding a vibrant, artfully arranged bouquet of fresh flowers, she moved effortlessly before the lens—striking deliberate poses for a short video clip before pausing for a still shot.

The music fading in her space, she stepped back from the screen. Curating a life on a five-inch screen was an art form. Every angle, every shade of black, every flower placement was calculated.

And it was all for Javier.

She monitored his digital footprint as closely as he believed he hid it. She knew his routine—when he logged on, how long his cursor lingered over her stories, how his name sat atop her viewer list night after night without fail. He rarely left a thumbs-up; he almost never dropped a heart. He preferred to remain an apparition, a quiet ghost satisfying his hunger for updates without leaving a trace.

Yet she noticed. If two days passed without a post, he grew restless, a bit sad, wondering where she was and what quiet corner of the world she occupied. So she posted today to give him his update—letting him trace every detail of the flowers, wonder who gave them to her, and feel his heart beat faster.

She did it for him, but strictly on her own terms. Love wasn't a spectator sport where one person hid behind glass while the other performed on command. Javier wanted to admire from safety, tucked behind thick frames and giant headphones where he couldn't get hurt. He wanted connection without the terror of being seen. She refused to be a passive ghost in his fantasy. Every post was an invitation, but also a boundary: *I am real, moving through a wide world—and if you want more than a snapshot, you must step out from behind the screen.*

III. The Weight of Reality

The real world was far removed from quiet lobbies and open roads.

In the cramped, cluttered back laundry area of his home, Javier sat on a low plastic stool. The sleek, enigmatic atmosphere of his inner life was stripped away. He wore a faded pair of long shorts and an old t-shirt with sleeves crudely torn off at the shoulders. A plastic washbasin filled with soapy water rested between his feet as he scrubbed a heavy garment against a wooden washboard with raw, tired hands.

Elaine, his wife, stepped into the narrow space wearing a tight, loud house dress, her arms crossed dismissively.

'Javier! Bakit nasa timba pa rin ’yung blouse ko?' she demanded, her voice sharp. 'I told you I need it ready for tonight! Grabe, moving at a snail’s pace ka na naman while everything in this house falls on me!'

'Kailangan pa ng second rinse, Elaine,' Javier replied without looking up, his hands scrubbing steadily. 'Matutuyo rin ’to agad.'

Before Elaine could answer, their two teenage daughters, Eileen and Kaitlyn, barged into the room. Eileen scowled, clutching her phone. 'Dad! Nag-cut out na naman ’yung Wi-Fi! Did you seriously forget to pay the bill ulit after I reminded you three times? Nakakainis!'

Kaitlyn dropped a pair of mud-stained sneakers right onto the rim of his basin. 'And my shoes aren't scrubbed! Sobrang dumi! I am not going out looking like this just because busy ka na naman sitting around doing nothing!'

Elaine chimed in, gesturing sharply. 'Narinig mo sila, Javier? Ayusin mo naman! Pure slack off ka na lang dyan sa laundry corner!'

Javier kept his head down in silence, the soapy water splashing against his knuckles. Elaine scoffed, turning on her heel. 'Tara na nga, girls. Unbelievable, wala talagang pakinabang today.'

When the door slammed shut and the offstage shouting faded, Javier paused. He wiped his wet hands on his shorts, reached for his thick glasses on a nearby plastic crate, and picked up his heavy headphones.

In this house, every demand was urgent; every silence was merely temporary. He lifted the headphones over his ears. The residual noise cut out instantly, replaced by the gentle acoustic notes of 'Cavatina.' He took a slow breath, looking past the concrete walls toward an invisible horizon—learning to build an entire universe inside five inches of foam and wire, just to remember that somewhere out there, the world was quiet.

IV. Meet Me in the Sixties

Back in the quiet workspace, Javier sat at his desk, laptop open, headphones resting beside him. Across the floor, Francine sat in her chair in her elegant black ensemble, writing in her leather notebook.

Javier stood up holding a steaming ceramic mug. He walked slowly across the room and placed it gently on the small table before her.

'Brought you some coffee,' he said softly. 'It’s decaf... because—'

Francine looked up, a knowing smile touching her lips, joining her voice with his: '—i–you can’t drink regular coffee.'

A quiet beat passed. Francine reached out, taking Javier’s hand in both of hers. He stood beside her in profile, their fingers interlocking in complete, unbroken silence as they gazed at one another.

'What are you thinking about?' she asked softly.

Rather than answering with words, Javier gently guided her up from her chair. Holding hands, they walked to his desk. He pulled up a second chair, and they sat side by side, their hands resting together on the smooth wood.

Javier looked at their joined fingers, the heavy weight of his daily life lacing his tone. 'How do you endure?'

Francine turned to him, her expression shifting into something deeply tender and nostalgic. 'I start to think that we are two different people... in a completely different time. Like the 1960s.'

She gently squeezed his hand. 'I pretend that your name is Anthony. And I pretend that my name is Anya. Because if it’s a different time and place... then nothing matters. Nothing is wrong. We just slip into those roles, leave the noise behind, and belong to each other without fear. That’s how I endure.'

Javier looked at her, the deep tension in his shoulders relaxing into absolute peace. They sat side by side in the quiet room, bound by an unspoken vow.

Later, near the edge of a quiet, secluded house, Javier pulled up on his road bike in full gear. He dropped the bicycle onto the gravel without care, stepped up to the wooden front door, and knocked three sharp, deliberate times.

The door opened to reveal Francine. She was radiant in a vibrant floral dress that swayed around her ankles, her striking red hair catching the dimming daylight.

Without a moment's hesitation, Javier reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

'Anya...' he whispered, cupping her face in his hands, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. 'I spent every mile running away from the rest of the world just to find my way back home to you. You are the only truth I have left.'

Francine looked up into his eyes with complete surrender.

'Oh... Anthony,' she murmured.

He led her backward into the doorway, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. As the door began to swing shut, Francis Lai’s 'Theme from A Man and A Woman' swelled softly into a rich, romantic melody, wrapping them in their alternate world.

Behind them on the grass, inside the small leather bag mounted on Javier's dropped bicycle, a phone screen flashed fiercely. The speaker picked up automatically, and Elaine’s screechy voice pierced the quiet afternoon air: 'Javier?! Huy! Javier!...'

A harsh click cut the call short. The romantic melody swelled once more, drowning out the echo of the world they had left behind.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices and artistic expression. This competition invites participants from around the globe to share their unique literary works, fostering a vibrant community of writers and poets. Each submission offers a window into the rich tapestry of human experience, contributing to a global dialogue through the power of words.

Thank you, Rossalyn Francess S. Raymundo, for sharing "Meet In The Sixties" with us. Your contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches our understanding of love and connection through its poignant narrative. We appreciate your artistry and look forward to seeing more of your work in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.