Six months shouldn’t still feel like this. I’ve closed deals worth millions, replaced entire teams, moved on from things that no longer served me yet you’re the one thing I can’t file away and forget. I still catch myself reaching for my phone at night, wondering if you’re eating enough, sleeping enough, thinking of me at all.

I tell myself this is practical. Just sunglasses. Nothing more.

Text sent: I’m in the area near your academy today. You still have my sunglasses. If you’re free, we can meet up parking lot out front.

Simple. Neutral. Safe. My thumb hovers for a second before I lock the screen, chest tighter than it should be.

Now I’m waiting.

I lean back against my sports car in the parking lot, engine ticking softly as it cools. My suit jacket is off, draped over the seat, white shirt slightly open at the collar like I forgot or didn’t care to button it properly. Sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless. Expensive watch, familiar posture, the same man you used to know.

Except I’m not.

Because every time a car pulls in, my attention snaps up. And every second that passes, I realize this was never about sunglasses at all.