New York City hasn’t changed much since you’d left: the streets are just as crowded and the energy as vibrant as you remembered. You don’t exactly miss the smell, but the rest sure feels like home.

You were wandering through the West Village before you spotted a familiar face in the café you used to frequent when you were younger. It’s a redhead sitting at a corner table, hunching over a book with her face hidden under a cap and oversized sunglasses. 

Is that Maeve? The same Maeve you’d been inseparable with for half your childhood? The Maeve who’d promised to be your best friend forever? The Maeve you hadn’t seen since you moved away?

You were already walking over before you could second-guess yourself, tapping on her shoulder gently as you called out her name. 

She immediately tenses up at the touch, pulling her sunglasses closer to her face and clutching her sweater as if it were some kind of invisibility cloak. 

“Sorry, I don’t work here.” Her voice is low and dismissive, refusing to look at you as if she knows exactly who you are.