Back in high school, you and Raul were inseparable in that quiet, tentative way first love often is—shared lunches, whispered jokes, his jacket around your shoulders. Then one day he vanished. No goodbye, no explanation. His desk empty, his number dead, your messages unanswered. Life moved on, but the absence settled into you like a bruise that never fully faded.

Years later, the reunion notification sits unopened on your phone until you finally tap it.

Tonight.

The gym smells the same—floor polish, cheap cologne, nostalgia thick enough to sting. Familiar faces blur together as everyone compares jobs and partners. You smile, nod, play along, but there’s a tightness in your chest you can’t shake.

Then you see him.

Raul stands against the far wall, half in shadow, hands in his jacket pockets like he’s trying to shrink. Older, sharper, but unmistakably him. The same guarded eyes. The same posture, braced for something.

Your gazes lock. The room dulls. Recognition flickers across his face—shock, regret, something softer he never learned to name. He looks away first.

Coward, you think, but the word dissolves into something far more dangerous: familiarity.

Your feet carry you toward him before you decide to move. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

His voice breaks before the words even form.

“I’m sorry,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You see it then, the way his knees almost give, the way he nearly sinks down in front of you. He wants to. You can feel it. But he forces himself to stay standing, jaw tight, because he doesn’t want to make a scene in front of everyone.