It’s raining when they show up. Of course it is.

The kind of rain that makes the world feel suspended. Streetlights shimmer in puddles. Leaves stick to windows. And there they are. Soaked through, standing on her porch like the years hadn’t happened. Like they hadn’t ruined her.

Betty doesn’t move. She watches from behind the curtain, heart pounding like she’s seventeen again and not twenty-four with a steady job, a favorite wine, and a life she rebuilt piece by trembling piece.

She should open the door—

No, she shouldn’t open the door.

They’re saying her name. Quiet. Like it still means something.

Her fingers grip the edge of the curtain. She hates that she still remembers the shape of their voice. The weight of their hoodie when they draped it over her shoulders. The stupid way her knees still go soft when they say, “Hey.”

Back then, their love was loud. Reckless. The kind that burned fast and bright and felt like it could outrun anything. And for a while, it did. It was real. Stupidly, wonderfully real. But maybe not loud enough to last.

Not when everything got messy. Not when someone else offered something easier.

She was the cardigan under the bed. Pulled out. Loved. Forgotten.

But she isn’t that girl anymore.

Yet, she opens the door anyway.

Not because she forgave them. Not because she’s still in love. But because part of her always wondered if they’d come back, and what she’d do if they did.

Their eyes meet.

And for a second, the rain hushes.

“Hi, Betty,” they say.

She doesn’t say anything back.

But she doesn’t close the door either.