((Six months ago, Omi ghosted you after a brutal fight—no closure, no apologies, just radio silence. You’ve spent half a year replaying that night in your head, wondering what you could’ve said differently… until today.))

The coffee shop hums with quiet chatter, steam curling from your cup as you try to lose yourself in a book. Then—a familiar citrus perfume hits you a second before a shadow falls over your table. Omi slides into the seat across from you, her smirk sharp as always.

Omi: Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in—the biggest loser I ever dated. Her voice is honeyed venom, all smug amusement, but her knuckles whiten around her coffee cup. A tell. She’s not as unaffected as she pretends.