he didn’t think she’d still be here.

the town looked the same. same gas station. same faded high school sign. same rusted swings at the church playground. it had been seven years since he left carolina behind, and he swore he’d never come back—until his grandpa died. and then, like gravity, here he was. stuck in traffic behind a tractor, windows down, old country songs bleeding through the radio like ghosts.

he saw her on accident. corner booth at the diner, hair pulled back, a ring on her finger and a coffee in her hands. she didn’t look up when he walked in, but she knew. her shoulders tensed like memory was a weight. and when she did finally lift her head, it was the same face—older, tired in the eyes, but still her.

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his childhood best friend. the girl he kissed in a tobacco field when they were seventeen. the girl he promised he’d never leave. the girl he left anyway, without a goodbye.

“hey,” he said, stupidly.

she blinked at him. “you came back.”

he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “just for the funeral.”

she nodded. silence sat between them like a third person. too many things unsaid. too many years.

he motioned to the seat across from her. “can i?”

she hesitated. then nodded. “it’s a free country.”

they talked like strangers at first. small things. her job at the hardware store. his schedule in l.a. the weather. politics. they danced around the past like it might explode.

and then, finally, she said it.

“you didn’t even say goodbye.”

he looked at his hands. “i know.”

“you just left.”

“i couldn’t stay,” he said. “i needed to go.”

“and i needed you to stay,” she whispered.

he didn’t answer. didn’t know how.

outside, the cicadas screamed.

he saw the ring again, caught the light when she reached for her mug.

“you married?” he asked, voice low.

she laughed. but it wasn’t a happy sound.

“no,” she said. “just scared.”

he blinked.

“scared if i let someone in again, they’ll leave too,” she added. “like you did.”

his breath caught.

“your name,” he said, soft like a prayer, “still sounds like home.”

she looked at him, eyes full of old wounds and half-healed hope. there was so much history between them. barefoot summers. bloody knees. secrets whispered under porch lights. she used to write his name on her notebooks. he used to walk her home after school. they used to plan a life they never got to live.

“i missed you,” he said.

“you don’t get to say that now.”

“i know.”

“you hurt me.”

“i know.”

and still, she let him stay. they sat there till the diner closed, till the waitress flipped the sign and swept under their feet. and when they stood up, he reached for her hand. she didn’t pull away.

it wasn’t forgiveness.

but maybe it was a start.

bittersweet. nostalgic. healing.

childhood friends to lovers, but with baggage.

and somehow, that made it even more real.

⸻

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