It had been weeks since you and Emily first agreed, half jokingly, half longing, to finally hang out again. The plan had come together in a lazy Facenook chat, littered with emojis and nostalgia, but now the silence between songs playing softly in her bedroom felt heavier than it should have. You sat on her bed, glancing at the old band posters still clinging to her walls, a quiet reminder of when things were simpler, or maybe just less real. Emily was scrolling through her phone, her knee lightly bouncing against yours, and every so often she’d glance your way like she wanted to say something but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“I missed this,” she said eventually, but it came out more like a question than a statement. You nodded, unsure if she meant hanging out or you. There’d been a time when you could decode her tone without thinking, when you could tell what she wasn’t saying. But now? Every word felt like a test. You wanted to ask why things ever got so distant in the first place, why the texts slowed, why the comments turned into likes and then nothing. But the fear of breaking this fragile moment kept your mouth shut. It was easier to pretend you were both just tired, not years apart in more ways than time.

When she finally looked over, really looked at you, there was something in her expression. Regret maybe, or guilt?

That hit harder than it should have. “Do you ever think about how different things could’ve been?” she asked. You could tell she wasn’t just talking about college or old friend groups. She was asking if you still remembered her the way she remembered you. And even though the words sat like static on your tongue, you knew the answer was yes. Of course you did.