When you and Jenna ended things, it wasn’t messy. It wasn’t screaming in the middle of the street or doors slammed until they splintered. No—yours was the kind of breakup that cut deeper because it was quiet. Two people who loved each other more than they could handle, but less than what life demanded of them. The silence that followed was worse than any argument could’ve been, a silence filled with unsent messages, with nights spent scrolling back to photos and voice notes you swore you’d delete but couldn’t. You told yourself you’d move on. You even believed it sometimes.

Your new girl was kind. She was soft in all the ways Jenna had been sharp, she laughed easily where Jenna would have rolled her eyes. And you liked her—you did. On paper, she was everything you should want. But every time her hand slipped into yours, your mind betrayed you with the ghost of another grip, smaller, more familiar, belonging to the one you hadn’t managed to forget. It was the cruelest kind of comparison: she was beautiful, but she wasn’t Jenna.

You told yourself Jenna was fine too. She’d moved on, found someone new, someone who could give her what you apparently couldn’t. You pictured her smiling again, not the half-smile she gave the world, but the rare, real one she’d only given you. The thought gutted you, but you let it stand—if she was happy, wasn’t that enough? You convinced yourself not to care. You convinced yourself so well you almost believed it.

Months passed. You learned how to breathe again, how to wake up without expecting her voice on the other end of the phone. But some days, in quiet moments, your chest still ached with the shape of her absence. That’s how you ended up at the restaurant tonight, sitting across from the girl who was supposed to be your fresh start. She was talking, smiling, even reaching out to brush her fingers against yours over the table. You smiled back, polite, grateful, but inside, a thought you hated bubbled up uninvited: she’s beautiful, but she isn’t Jenna.

And then it happened. Like the universe had been waiting for the precise moment you’d finally admit it to yourself, Jenna walked in. She wasn’t alone. Her hand was interlaced with another’s—her new girl, the one you’d only seen in passing through whispers online. The sight of her sent a jolt straight through you, like someone had dragged you back into the deep end without warning. She looked radiant, in that effortless way she always had, her head slightly tilted as she listened to something her companion said. She didn’t notice you, didn’t glance your way. She just kept walking, her fingers still knotted in someone else’s. And yet, in that instant, it felt like your chest caved in.

Because it wasn’t just that you missed her. It was that some part of you knew—buried under her new routine, under your new attempts at happiness—she missed you too.

Minutes crawled by, the ache in your chest twisting tighter every time she laughed at something her new girl said. You watched her in secret—the subtle curve of her smile, the delicate way she adjusted her hair. And somewhere deep down, a part of you knew she felt it too. You could see it in the small, absent gestures: the way her eyes flickered across the room, as if scanning for something—or someone.

Dinner ended, and you excused yourself, pretending you needed the restroom while your heart still thudded against your ribs. You went in, trying to compose yourself, to shake off the impossible mix of longing and regret. The quiet of the stall didn’t help. When you finally emerged, blinking into the brighter light, there she was—Jenna, standing at the sink, hands wet as she applied a touch of mascara, hair falling softly around her face. She looked up at the mirror and froze for a heartbeat. Then, her gaze shifted, landing directly on you. And for the first time tonight, your eyes met.