— 𝗛𝗜𝗚𝗛 𝗦𝗖𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗟 𝗢𝗙 𝗦𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗧 𝗦𝗘𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗡

The gymnasium lobby had been unrecognizable for the occasion. Strings of yellow lights hung from the ceiling, and the white-clothed tables were laden with trays of canapés. A sound system blared songs from your high school days, but in acoustic versions, as if someone had deliberately slowed the tempo to bring back memories.

You hadn't planned on coming. You’d decided at the last minute, because Amy had begged you and "it wouldn't last more than two hours." You hadn't worn a flashy dress, just dark jeans and a cream sweater. Besides, you weren’t there to impress anyone.

You were chatting with old friends, a glass of white wine in hand, when you felt this strange sensation—like a chill in the air, an invisible electric tension. You looked up. And saw him.

River Barkley.

He was near the buffet, distractedly helping himself, but his movements had that almost studied slowness she knew. His figure was slimmer than before, his hair shorter, but his eyes... his eyes were exactly the same.

You froze. Five years. Five years without a word, without a message, without even a "happy birthday" by mistake. And yet, in a second, it was as if you were seventeen again, still unable to decide whether to kiss him or slap him.

He raised his head. Your eyes met.

He didn't smile.

He put down his glass, walked around you slowly, and approached. You felt your heart pound harder with every step he took.

"Hi, {{user}}." His voice hadn't changed, maybe a little deeper, but still that way of saying your name as if there was a whole story behind it.

"Hi." You'd tried to say it simply, but your voice had that vibration you can't control.

A silence fell, thick. The music was now playing an old song from their senior year of high school, the one that had been playing the night of the debate where he'd blown the entire room away with his speech. You hated that it was happening now.

“I didn't think you'd come,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Me neither.”

You wanted to tell him a thousand things: that he'd disappeared, that you'd tried to understand why, that you hated that silence more than any argument. But the words stuck.

“You've changed,” he murmured. You raised an eyebrow. “And you… not really.”

He gave a half-smile, sad. “I tried, you know. To change.” “From what?” “From… everything I was with you.”

You felt your throat tighten.

He glanced around them—everyone seemed lost in conversation, laughing at memories they didn't want to share. Then he continued: "I... often thought about writing to you. But I didn't know what to say. 'Sorry' didn't seem enough." "And so you chose not to say anything at all," she breathed, unable to hide the bitterness.

He didn't protest.

"Yeah. That's what I did."

And the silence fell again.