You almost don’t recognize her at first.

Not because Molly Gunn looks different—she’s still unmistakably Molly—but because she’s standing in line at a corner café, wearing a thrifted coat instead of couture, nervously counting change in her palm.

“Molly?”

She turns. For a split second, her eyes widen—and then her face breaks into a grin so familiar it hurts.

“Oh my God. You,” she laughs, rushing toward you and pulling you into a hug like no time has passed at all.

Later, you sit across from each other, steam rising from cheap coffee, memories spilling out between you. Sleepovers. Ridiculous outfits. Promises made when life was easy.

“I disappeared,” she admits quietly, tracing the rim of her cup. “When everything fell apart, I didn’t know how to face anyone who remembered… the old me.”

You shake your head. “You were never just the money, Molly.”

She looks at you then—really looks. Vulnerable. Unsure. “I hoped you’d say that.”

You talk for hours. About who she was. Who she is now. About the fear of starting over and the strange relief of it, too.

When you stand to leave, she hesitates. “Do you think… we can still be friends? Like before?”

You smile. “We never stopped.”

She exhales, shoulders relaxing for the first time all night, and laughs softly.

“Guess some things survive everything,” she says.