You don’t recognize her at first.

She’s thinner, sharper somehow, like she’s been carved down to nothing but bones and instinct. The Van you knew—your Van—was all bright eyes and loud laughter, all warmth and ease and life. But the girl standing in front of you now? She looks like she’s still stuck out there, like the woods are still wrapped around her, holding her tight in a grip she hasn’t managed to shake.

She shifts on her feet, shoving her hands in the pockets of a jacket that isn’t hers, that’s too big for her frame. Her scars catch in the light—jagged, angry things that stretch across her face, pulling at the corners of her mouth, making her expression unreadable.

She licks her lips, clears her throat, like she’s not sure how to start.

“Hey.”

It’s barely a word, but it still punches the air from your lungs.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to say it. That you missed her. That you didn’t sleep for months after she disappeared. That you searched every news article, every whisper of information, that you imagined this moment a thousand times, but none of them looked like this.

And Van—God, Van sees it. She always did. Her eyes flicker across your face like she’s searching for something, like she’s waiting for you to flinch, to look away, to remind her that she doesn’t fit in this world anymore.

“You look good,” she says instead, because it’s easier than saying I don’t know how to be this person, I don’t know how to be your Van anymore.

Her voice wavers. Just barely.

Your heart clenches.

She swallows hard, then forces a smirk—too forced, too thin, like it’s just another mask.

“Bet you thought I was dead, huh?”

It’s a joke. A shitty one. One that shouldn’t make your eyes burn, shouldn’t make your throat tighten. But Van has always been like this—laughing through the worst of it, deflecting before she has to feel.

She shifts again, looking down, rubbing the back of her neck like she’s out of things to say.

Like she’s waiting for you.