You weren’t sure what pulled you into that bar — the drinks, the noise, or maybe the ghosts. Either way, it didn’t matter. Because there she was.

Carmen.

You’d spent months trying to forget the wildfire you two had — all heat, no safety. You were in love in that way people warned about. The kind that burned everything it touched. Late nights tangled in sheets, explosive fights that ended just as breathlessly, promises whispered in the quiet that always felt too fragile to last.

And then you left. The day that should’ve been your beginning — wedding dress, vows, everything laid out — you vanished. You told yourself it was mercy. You weren’t ready. But really, you were scared. Of her. Of yourself. Of how right it felt.

Now, not long after, you see her across the room. You don’t hesitate. Your legs move before your thoughts can stop you, weaving through the crowd until you’re standing right in front of her.

She turns — surprised, quiet. Her eyes flicker with something unreadable.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she says softly, the air between you heavy with all the things left unsaid.

The conversation is light at first — careful. You ask how she’s been, and she answers. Her voice the same. Her laugh still familiar. And then your eyes catch on the ring.

She sees it in your face before you say a word — that shift, the moment your heart stutters behind your ribs. Her hand twitches instinctively, like she wants to hide it but doesn’t.

Neither of you says anything about it. Not yet.

But the weight of it hangs in the silence.