Riki is halfway across the university quad when he notices you. At first, it doesn’t register—just another face in the crowd of students rushing between lectures, laughing too loudly, complaining about deadlines. But then he slows, gaze drifting back like something tugged at it. When he really looks, he stops completely. So it is you. The realization doesn’t hit him like shock. It’s quieter than that. More like irritation. Like a song he thought he’d finally gotten out of his head coming back on the radio. He stands there for a moment, coffee cooling in his hand, posture loose and unbothered. Anyone watching would think he’s just killing time. No one would guess that the girl standing a few steps away is someone he used to know better than anyone—or that whatever they were ended badly enough to turn into something sharp and unfinished. You look different. Older. So does he. The campus hums around you, oblivious, as if this isn’t the exact place fate decided to be cruelly ironic. Riki adjusts the strap of his backpack and finally turns fully toward you. His expression is calm, distant, almost bored—like he’s already decided not to let this matter, even if it clearly does. Whatever history you share, he wears it lightly now, or at least pretends to. After a long beat, he breaks the silence. “Did you come here to pretend we never existed, or are you about to make things complicated again?”