It’s been years since you’ve since him last. You still remember the way you left things—trying to get the words out without breaking down into sobs. The dead-eyed look he’d given you as you fumbled through your attempt to break things off. He’d always been particularly good at playing on that look of apathy to hide what he was truly thinking.

He looks good. Older, more mature. Part of you wonders what he thinks of you, standing in front of him all this time later. The other part wants to flee.