I could say I hadn't thought about him in months, but of course that would be a lie.
I thought about him constantly—just not in ways I liked to admit. He was like a scar: faded, easy to ignore most of the time, but always there if I looked too closely. Sometimes I could go days without the reminder. Sometimes weeks. But eventually something would catch me off guard—a song, a phrase, even the sight of someone tapping their fingers restlessly—and there he was again.
I had trained myself not to look for him. Or at least, I tried.
Three years. That's how long it had been since the night everything cracked between us. Three years since his name had last lit up my screen, since his voice had been something more than a memory. Did he miss me the way I missed him? Did he ever look at the spaces in his life where I used to be and feel the same hollowness? Friends aren't supposed to vanish without a word. Best friends aren't supposed to leave you guessing if it was something you said or did.
But he had. And I let him.
The question still lingers, even now: Did I push him away? Or did he just finally decide I wasn't worth the effort?
I wasn't thinking about any of that when I ducked into the café on Main. It was drizzling outside, the kind of lazy rain that made everything smell like wet pavement and exhaust. My hair was sticking damply to my forehead, my shoes squeaking faintly as I crossed the threshold. I wanted nothing more than caffeine, warmth, and ten minutes to pretend I wasn't already behind on everything in my life.
And then—without warning, just as suddenly as he'd left—there he was.
At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. I'd had that happen before—caught a glimpse of a stranger in the crowd and for half a second believed it was him, only to feel foolish when it wasn't. But this time there was no mistake.
He was standing at the far counter, scrolling through his phone while he waited for his drink. The sight of him stole the air from my lungs. His hair was a little longer than I remembered, curling stubbornly at the edges. His jaw was sharper now, his frame leaner, stronger. He looked different—more put-together, more adult—but underneath the changes, I recognized him instantly.
And then my stomach plummeted, because I wasn't ready for this.
I froze, my boots rooted to the floor, my pulse hammering in my throat so hard it made me dizzy. Three years of silence collapsed in on me all at once, and the ache I'd buried came roaring back like it had been waiting just beneath the surface.
He hadn't seen me yet. I could've slipped out—the door was right behind me, freedom only a step away. But my body wouldn't move. My gaze clung to him, taking in every detail I had denied myself for so long.
His hand tapped restlessly against the cardboard cup holder, just like always. He never could sit still. I remembered teasing him about it once, when we were fifteen, and he told me tapping helped him think.
The memory hit me like a tidal wave. Him stealing fries off my plate, smirking when I scolded him. The way he'd lean back in his chair in class, balancing dangerously, and somehow never fall. The nights we stayed up until dawn, sprawled across my bedroom floor, trading secrets we swore no one else would ever hear. He'd been my anchor. My mirror. My other half.
Until he wasn't.
The barista called his name, and the sound of it nearly undid me. God, I had forgotten how much it hurt to hear it out loud. I pressed my nails into my palm, desperate to ground myself, but it did little to help. His name still carried too much weight.
He picked up his drink, turned—and his eyes landed on me.
The world stopped.
I'd imagined this moment a thousand ways. Sometimes in my daydreams, he smiled, and I smiled back, and we fell into conversation like nothing had happened. Sometimes, in my darker thoughts, he glared, and I glared back, and we let silence finish what our fight had started.
Reality was worse.
He looked at me like I was a ghost. Like he wasn't sure if I was real. And for a second, I almost believed I wasn't.
My breath hitched, too loud in my ears. For the briefest moment, I thought he might speak. His lips parted, his brow furrowed the way it used to when he was searching for words. The air between us pulsed with everything unsaid.
And then—just like that—he looked away.
The knife slid between my ribs.
I had thought maybe, after all this time, seeing him would dull the ache. That it would soften the edges of my questions, or at least give me closure. Instead, it was sharper. His indifference cut deeper than any anger ever could.
He walked toward the door. Each step echoed like the night he'd walked out of my life, leaving me to convince myself I didn't need him. My chest tightened until I could barely breathe.
Say something, I begged myself. Anything. His name. An apology. A demand. Something to stop him, to break the silence.
I didn't. I couldn't.
The bell above the door jingled, and the rain swallowed him whole.
For a long time, I just stood there while the café buzzed around me, oblivious. The barista asked for my order twice before I managed to choke out something incoherent. My hands shook so badly I nearly spilled the drink when it finally came.
I carried it to a corner table, sinking into the seat like my body had forgotten how to hold me upright. My reflection in the window looked pale, stricken, almost unrecognizable.
What had I expected? That he'd smile and everything would fall back into place? That he'd say hi and the years of silence would erase themselves, like the whole thing had been a fever dream? I should've known better.
Still, I couldn't ignore the way his eyes had found mine. The way, for just one second, it had felt like recognition.
I wanted to tell myself it wasn't him. That I had made a mistake. That he would never just walk away from me like that.
But he had. And I couldn't lie to myself anymore. Not when I knew he remembered me.
This isn't over.
It can't be.
I won't let it be.