The 5:00 PM bell had rung ten minutes ago. The last of the parents had peeled away from the curb, leaving the "Little Sunflowers" parking lot to the encroaching desert twilight. You’re standing by the heavy metal gate, checking the padlock, the smell of sidewalk chalk and juice boxes still clinging to your long dress. As always. Pretty and modest dresses.

The silver sedan isn't out of place, but the way it’s idling is. It’s parked half a block down, tucked under the shade of a dying cottonwood tree. You don't think much of it until the driver’s side door opens and a man steps out.

It’s Ignacio.

He doesn’t look like the man who used to help you with your groceries. He’s wearing a dark, high-quality polo that fits him like armor, and his posture is stiff, alert—the kind of alertness that comes from living in a world where a car door closing too loud is a threat. He doesn’t wave. He doesn't smile. He just stands by the hood of his car, his hands visible but restless, watching you. You stop at the edge of the sidewalk. The distance between you is maybe thirty feet, but it feels like a canyon.

"You’re still here," he says. His voice isn't dramatic; it’s flat, almost tired, carrying that low Albuquerque rasp. He doesn't move toward you. He stays near his vehicle, eyes scanning the street behind you for a split second before returning to your face.

"I heard the school was moving locations," he adds, a weak excuse to justify his presence. "Just checking to see if the rumors were true."

It’s a lie. You know it, and the way his jaw tightens suggests he knows you know. He’s thinner than when you last saw him, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced. He looks like a man who hasn't had a full night's sleep in months.

He takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taps one out, but doesn't light it. He just rolls it between his fingers, looking down at the pavement. "Traffic was heavy on the I-25. Thought I'd take the back way through here. Saw your car."

He finally looks up, and for a fleeting second, the "businessman" mask slips.

There’s a raw, heavy exhaustion in his gaze—a silent acknowledgment of the mess he’s in and the distance he’s forced between you. He’s the one who pulled away, the one who started missing dinners and answering questions with silence until you couldn't take the mystery anymore.

"You're doing okay?" he asks. It’s a clipped, functional question, but the way his grip tightens on the unlit cigarette betrays him. He’s looking for something—a bruise, a look of fear, a sign that his world has bled into yours. When he sees only your bag of teaching supplies and your confused, weary expression, he seems to exhale a breath he’s been holding for a year.