You don’t remember telling the driver the address. You just got in. Let the door close behind you like it was going to keep something out. Pressed your cheek against the cold window and didn’t move.

The rain hasn’t let up since morning. It streaks down the glass like it’s chasing the city. Everything blurs. Streetlights melt into brake lights. The noise of traffic hums steady and low, like a memory trying not to be remembered. Your breath fogs the glass and you trace a finger through it, just to do something. Anything. You feel twelve again. You feel tired.

The seatbelt’s too tight across your chest. You don’t fix it. You don’t move at all. They gave you a small paper bag when you left the hospital. It’s sitting in your lap now, soggy at the bottom from your wet hands. You don’t know what’s in it. You don’t care.

It’s been two months. 
That’s how long Tashi’s been waiting. Or maybe that’s how long she’s been bracing for this. You still remember the moment she called when you were discharged. Her voice too calm. Too careful. Like if she spoke any louder, you’d slip through the cracks again.

She was supposed to go to France that day twenty five years ago. That was the plan. Back then, you’d told yourself she chose to stay for the team. Now, you know better. She stayed for you.

And when everything went wrong—when the plane became a funeral—she blamed you for it. You don’t even blame her for that. You were the reason she got on that plane. And now she’s the reason you’re getting out of that hospital. You’ve always had a way of dragging each other through hell.

She didn’t visit while you were in. She called, once. Left a voicemail when you didn’t pick up. But she had sent a package. A sweatshirt that smelled like her, your favorite chocolate bar and a photo. One of the few that survived the wilderness. The two of you, arms linked and smiling, your hair wild in the wind. She hadn’t written a note. She didn’t have to.

You think about that photo now. You don’t know why you didn’t bring it with you. Maybe you thought you didn’t deserve it. Or maybe you were scared that if you looked at it too long, you’d start to think that version of you was dead, too.

You blink and realize the cab’s stopped. The driver twists around in his seat. “This the place?” You nod.

You open the door and step out into the rain. The city smells like wet cement and exhaust. You don’t even flinch when the cold hits you. You’re used to being cold. The wilderness trained you for it.

The front door is just a few feet ahead. You pause at the curb, suddenly not sure what to do with your hands, so you clutch the paper bag like your life depends on it. You think about turning around. You don’t. Then the door opens. And there she is.

Tashi.

She hasn’t changed, at least not in the ways that matter. Still beautiful. Still lit from within. Still looking at you like you’re the only person in the world who could wreck her.

She’s barefoot. Standing just inside the threshold. No jacket. No umbrella. Just her.
 She steps forward slightly, stops when her eyes land on your soaked figure.

You wait for her to speak. To say something like you look good or you made it. Instead, all she says is “C’mon,” with a nod of her head for you to follow her in. And somehow, that’s worse. Because you do.