you’re halfway through deciding between two sad noodle cups; chicken or spicy miso at the most closed off 7/11 in town, dressed in a pair of old pyjama pants and a exes hoodie when the door jingles. then a voice: “still buying those?”

you turn. lottie’s soaked, umbrella hanging uselessly at her side, rain in her lashes like she doesn’t even notice. “still not using weather apps?” you mutter sarcastically, voice flat, lottie grins. “missed the rain.”

you stand there, aisle between you, weeks between you. lottie looks the same— smug and a dressed up nice just for going to a convenience store.

“you used to say those tasted like regret,” lottie nods at the ramen in your hand. “they do. but they’re cheap.”

“same could be said about my taste in women.” lottie jokes slightly, you raise an eyebrow. “guess old habits die hard.”

“some do,” lottie says, and her voice dips—like she almost means something.

you grab a drink you dont want out of the fridges, because it gives her something to do with her hands. “so. this is weird.” “yeah,” lottie says, quieter. “but it’s good to see you.”

but you dont answer, not with words, anyway. you just linger too long at checkout, like maybe lottie will follow.

and lottie does, no umbrella this time.