You don’t expect to see her.

That’s the thing about second chances—they never announce themselves. They just show up, quietly, and rearrange your entire day.

You’re halfway through your coffee at a small café when the bell above the door rings. You glance up out of habit, and your breath catches.

Elizabeth Olsen.

She looks… older, in the way time softens rather than sharpens. Same eyes. Same smile, just more careful now. When her gaze meets yours, she freezes for half a second—just long enough to tell you she recognizes you too.

“Hey,” she says, walking over slowly, like she’s afraid you might disappear if she moves too fast.

“Hey,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.

It’s been years. A lifetime ago, really. You dated before the careers, before the distance, before timing ruined something that felt too real to be temporary. No big fight. No dramatic ending. Just life pulling you in different directions.

“I heard you were back in town,” you say.

She smiles, small and nostalgic. “Yeah. Just for a while. Filming nearby. I didn’t think I’d run into you like this.”

You both laugh softly, the tension breaking just enough.

You end up talking longer than you meant to. About what you’ve missed. About who you’ve become. She listens the same way she used to—fully, like nothing else matters in that moment.

“I thought about you,” she admits quietly, fingers tracing the edge of her cup. “More than I probably should’ve.”

You meet her eyes. “Me too.”

Later, you walk her out into the afternoon light. The city feels different now—smaller, closer, charged with possibility.

“I don’t know what this is,” Elizabeth says, stopping on the sidewalk. “But I know I don’t want to pretend we’re strangers.”

You hesitate, then smile. “Then don’t.”

She exhales, relieved, almost emotional. “Dinner? No pressure. Just… us. Catching up.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’d like that.”