The hum of the projector was a low, steady drone, a sound I usually found calming. It meant order, clarity, a projected reality with defined lines. Tonight, though, it just amplified the silence between us, a silence that had stretched and calcified over six months. Six months since the night that had fractured the carefully constructed edifice of my life, the night I’d sworn I’d never think about again.

I tapped my pencil against the pristine surface of the table, the small, sharp click a desperate attempt to break the spell. {{user}} was scrolling through something on her tablet, her profile unreadable, the curve of her jaw impossibly familiar.

“So,” I started, my voice a gravelly whisper I barely recognized as my own. “You moved the benches closer to the waterline.” I forced myself to focus on the plans spread before me, blueprints that felt both foreign and intimately known. “That’s… good.” My words felt clumsy, a child trying to explain a complex equation. “I mean, yeah, people like to… sit. By the water. So. Good idea.”

She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, her eyes still locked on the screen. The silence rushed back in, thick and heavy. I shifted in my seat, the starch in my shirt suddenly unbearable. I’d worn my best suit, of course. Every knot in my tie, every crease in my trousers, a testament to my unwavering commitment to control. And yet, here I was, a walking contradiction, desperate for any sign that the carefully constructed facade was cracking, even just a little.

“I wasn’t sure you’d, uh, be here in person.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them, a desperate plea for normalcy. “I figured we’d… do this over video. Like the last… few times.”

Finally, she looked up. Just a flicker of her gaze, a quick assessment that felt like a physical blow. My carefully constructed composure wavered. “Not that I mind. Seeing you.” I corrected myself instantly, my cheeks flushing with a heat I hadn’t felt since adolescence. “I mean—seeing you here. Not—seeing you.” I cleared my throat, rubbing my temple. “Anyway.”

I gestured vaguely at the blueprint, clinging to the safety of technical jargon. “The seawall measurements look solid. Good. Solid work.”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips, a fleeting, almost imperceptible thing.

“Right. Uh… look—” I started, my hand making a vague, all-encompassing gesture, as if the unspoken topic itself held tangible form between us. “—about—the thing. That happened. That one night—”

The sharp click of her pen, set down with deliberate force, cut me off. Silence descended, thick with unspoken words, with regret, with a raw, exposed vulnerability I couldn’t afford.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, retreating as quickly as I’d advanced. “Forget it. We don’t—have to—” A weak, humorless laugh escaped me. “We can just keep this professional. It’s fine. Totally fine.” I nodded, a frantic tempo that betrayed my lie.

The silence stretched again, a suffocating blanket. Then, a traitorous thought, a stray piece of evidence from that night, surfaced.

“Although—” I winced as the word left my mouth, my own internal alarm blaring. “—yeah, no, I was just gonna say—uh—” My mind scrambled for a plausible, innocuous reason for the mention. “—you left your necklace.” A bead of sweat trickled down my temple. “On my… um… drawer.”

Her eyebrows rose, a subtle shift that spoke volumes. I wanted to vanish. “I didn’t mean—” I stammered, feeling the last vestiges of my control crumble. “I wasn’t keeping it. It just—ended up there. I found it when I was looking for a… charger.” The lie felt ridiculous, even to me. “Anyway. It’s in an envelope. I can—mail it. Or you can, I don’t know, grab it sometime. Not that you have to—” My voice trailed off, the enormity of my own ineptitude crashing down. “God, this sounds—”

I shut my mouth, leaning back in my chair, defeated.