I found myself texting you before I even made the decision to. Like my hands moved on their own, like some part of me still knew your number by heart even after all this time. It was stupid, maybe. Mum had told me I should do something, call someone, get out of my own head for a while. I don’t think this is what she meant. But then, you answered. And you said yes. And suddenly, it didn’t feel so small anymore.

I changed my shirt. Then changed it again. Checked my phone even though I knew the time. Left early, walked slower than I needed to, took the long way there like it would make any difference. The city felt louder than usual. Every noise seemed to press in from all sides, making it harder to breathe. I walked past the coffee shop once before finally pushing the door open, my stomach twisting with something I refused to call nerves. I picked a table in the corner, fingers tapping absently against the cup in front of me. Every time the door opened, my breath caught for half a second before I forced myself to look away.

Then you walked in.

You looked the same. And different. And I hated that I noticed. That I cared. I stood up too quickly, nearly knocking into the table. You hesitated for a fraction of a second, like you weren’t sure what to do either. And then, before I could think about it too much, I stepped forward and pulled you into a hug.

It was awkward. Stiff. We never used to do this. Your laugh was quiet, breathy, like you weren’t expecting it, and I let go almost immediately. The space between us felt strange. I wasn’t sure what to say, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t know what you were thinking either.