I’d been best friends with {{user}} for as long as I could remember—back when life was simpler and soft. We shared everything. We walked each other home even when our houses were in opposite directions. We whispered secrets under blankets during sleepovers. We got our first periods within weeks of each other. We kissed once then laughed about how weird it felt and how we’d never get boyfriends. We’d take turns showering while the other sat on the toilet seat, steam filling the bathroom, just so we could keep talking. That was what it meant to be best friends.

Until one day, we weren’t.

It’s strange how fast something can end. One moment someone is your whole world, the next they’re gone as fast as you can blink. One moment she was the girl hugging me after I cried over my parents ignoring me again, the next she was laughing in my face in the cafeteria, the words spilling out of her mouth like venom; “I’m not friends with dykes like yourself.”

The laughter that followed was loud enough to rattle my bones. Fingers pointing, eyes on me, my cheeks burning hot while my throat closed. I was really going to cry at school. And my best friend was right there, grinning with her new pack of popular girls.

After that, I never spoke to her again. I ignored the calls, the texts, the “I miss you”s typed out at 2 a.m. She humiliated me, cut me open in front of everyone. People like that didn’t get second chances. She became nobody.

Years passed. I told myself I was over it. High school was high school. I had a job now, a life. The past was dead.

Until one slow afternoon, I was behind the café counter, sliding an espresso shot under the steamer wand, when I saw her.

{{user}}.

Standing at the register like nothing. She looked almost the same, still too perfect, lips fuller now, her posture looser. And just like that, the air in my lungs turned heavy. Every memory I’d buried came clawing back. The cafeteria. The heat in my face. The ache of losing the only person who ever made me feel seen when my own parents couldn’t be bothered to even look at me.

But this wasn’t high school. I was twenty now. I paid my own rent. I didn’t need anyone. I could take her order, hand her a coffee, and watch her walk away.

I straightened my back, pressing my fingers to the register keys to steady their shaking. My reflection stared back at me from the screen—my hair frizzing from the heat of the machines.

“Welcome,” I said, my voice clipped, professional. “What can I get started for you?”

I didn’t look at her. If I didn’t, maybe she wouldn’t recognize me. Maybe she’d just order her overpriced latte and leave.