You never meant to see her again.

The universe is large enough for people like you to vanish quietly, to let memories dissolve into myth. Yet there she was—behind a counter stacked with glass vials and sealed tinctures, wearing a white coat and that same deliberate calm she used to practice when she was too young to know what restraint meant.

Ruan Mei.

She didn’t notice you at first. Her hair was longer now, the gentle wave catching the light from the pharmacy’s skylight, her voice soft as ever when she spoke to a customer. Polite. Distant. Too perfect, too controlled. It made something twist in your chest—the faint echo of the girl she once was, too bright for her own good, and the memory of the mistake you once called love.

You’d been eighteen. She’d been fourteen. Back then, the numbers had felt meaningless. Back then, you thought you were protecting her.

“The world is cruel,” you had told her once, holding her hand behind the science building after class. “If you don’t let me protect you, it will eat you alive.”

And she had believed you.

She believed every warning, every lesson wrapped in tenderness and fear. She let you build walls around her, mistaking them for safety, mistaking your trembling for love.

When she finally looked up and saw you now—years later—her expression didn’t falter. But something in her eyes flickered. Recognition. Hesitation. Maybe even a little pity.

“...You’re early for your prescription,” she said. Her tone was clinical, rehearsed. “Or are you here for something else?”

You almost said her name. Almost. But your throat tightened, and instead, you handed her the empty bottle.

She took it without touching you. Her gloves brushed the glass instead. Always cautious. Always clean.