The first time she saw him after everything, it was like staring at a stranger wearing a ghost’s face.

{{user}} stood at the other end of the room, laughing at something someone said, head tilted back, eyes crinkled in amusement. The same man she once knew—except he wasn’t. Not anymore.

She clutched her drink, the condensation seeping between her fingers, grounding her. It had been almost a year since they last spoke, a year since she walked out of his apartment with her heart in pieces, swearing she'd never let him hurt her again. And yet, here she was, standing in the same air as him, breathing in the remnants of what we used to be.

He hadn’t seen her yet.

Good.

Because she didn’t know what she’d do if he did.

They used to be close—inseparable, even. Late-night drives with the windows down, cigarette smoke curling between their fingers as they whispered secrets into the dark. Mornings tangled in sheets, his lips tracing her collarbone like a silent prayer. They burned like wildfire, like they’d never know the cold.

But they did.

The cold came when his voice turned sharp, when his touch became distant, when love became something they had to beg for instead of something freely given.

She still remembers the night it all fell apart. His back was to her, hands braced against the kitchen counter, a silence so thick it felt like drowning. She had asked him if he still loved her. He never answered.

That silence told her everything.

Now, here they were, breathing the same air but living in different worlds.

His eyes flicked across the room, scanning lazily until—

Until they landed on her.

She felt the moment he recognized her. His expression didn’t change, but she saw it in the way his fingers flexed against his glass, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

For a split second, she thought he might come over.

For a split second, she wanted him to.

But he didn’t.