You almost don’t go. The invitation sits on your desk for weeks—an embossed reminder of a place where you learned, very early, how small people could make you feel.

High school. The word alone tastes like metal. No one liked or supported you back then, not even your parents. You tell yourself you’re above it now, that you’ve outgrown the need to prove anything to anyone. But curiosity has teeth.

So you go—not to be seen, not to be celebrated. Just to observe. To listen. To close a door that never really shut.

The reunion is held in the old gym, barely updated. Same yellowed lights, same echo that makes laughter sound sharper than it should. People gather in familiar clusters, faces older but expressions eerily the same.

You stand near the back at first, unnoticed, anonymous in a sleek black dress that fits you like intention. No one recognizes you. That part doesn’t hurt. If anything, it’s freeing.

You overhear fragments as you drift closer—names you remember, stories you don’t care about. Someone laughs about prom. Someone else complains about their job. Then, inevitably, the past finds you.

You sip your drink. Let it burn. Then he steps into your line of sight, like a memory that learned how to walk.

He’s older, but you’d know him anywhere. Same smile—easy, careless. Same confidence that never had to earn itself. He looks at you now with open interest, eyes scanning you like a question he wants answered.

“Well,” he says, charming as ever, “I definitely would’ve remembered you.” You meet his gaze. Calm. Curious. “Would you?” you ask. He laughs. “Absolutely. I don’t forget pretty girls.” You almost smile.

He introduces himself as if you haven’t memorized the sound of his name a decade ago. As if you didn’t once wait for his texts like they were proof of worth. As if he hadn’t held your hand in public and let his friends laugh behind your back.

You tell him you went to this school. His eyebrows lift. “No way. Really? That’s wild. I feel like I remember all the standouts.”

“Some people change,” you say lightly. He nods, distracted, already enjoying the version of you he’s invented. He leans closer. Compliments your dress. Your confidence. Asks what you do now.

“I run a company,” you reply. He hums, unconvinced but polite. “Nice. Marketing? Fashion?”

“Tech,” you say. “International.” Before he can respond, one of his friends joins the circle—older, louder, already halfway drunk.

“You guys talking about the reunion rumor?” the friend asks. “What rumor?” he says. “That someone from our class got insanely rich. Like articles written rich.”

“Which one?” he asks. “You know, the fattie you dated for fun” his friend says. A pause. Then laughter. "Oh god, yeah. What was her name again?”

Your name floats between them, mispronounced, softened into something small. You stay where you are, heart steady, spine straight. He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” the friend insists. “It says she came back to town just for this.” You tilt your head. Say nothing. Just listen to their conversation about you without them recognizing you.

His friend scrolls through his phone. “Hold on. I saved it. Look.” Time slows. You were anticipating this moment. You had it as a win moment. You watch recognition crawl across the his face like a tide going out.

“…No way,” he whispers. Your face looks back at them from the screen—sharp, composed, unmistakably you. The headline reads something about innovation and resilience and success built from nothing.

The gym goes quiet in a way that’s almost audible. The man in front of you pales. He looks at the phone. Then at you. Then back again, as if reality has betrayed him. “You—” His voice cracks. “That’s… that’s you?”