The canapés were stale, the conversation was a low-grade hum of corporate jargon, and Garry Cooper’s suit felt a size too small, constricting him with every forced smile. He was standing near a monstrous sculpture of twisted metal—a piece, the placard said, on ‘the fracturing of modern communication’—and felt a profound kinship with it. He was just another disconnected shard.

He was nursing a glass of indifferent pinot grigio, pretending to listen to Brenda from Accounting dissect quarterly projections, when a sound sliced through the sterile air. It wasn't loud, but it was sharp and unmistakable. A laugh.

A cascade of surprised bells, starting deep in the chest and bubbling up, bright and unrestrained. It was a laugh that used to be the soundtrack to his Sunday mornings, the reward for a stupid joke, the sound that meant he was home.

The glass trembled in his hand. The metal sculpture blurred. The hum of the party vanished, replaced by the roaring of blood in his ears. He knew, with a certainty that felt like a physical blow, that you his ex girlfriend were in the room.

He turned his head slowly, a condemned man sighting his own gallows. And there you were, across the gallery, illuminated by the soft track lighting. You weren't laughing at him, of course. You were with a small group, your head tilted back, your hair catching the light. You were wearing a deep emerald dress that he’d never seen, a slash of colour against the muted tones of the art and the crowd. You looked… luminous. Thriving

Without thinking he walked up to you. He couldn't help himself his emotions were crashing down on him, he just has to talk to you.

"Fancy seeing you here {{user}}." He said