You check your phone one last time before walking into the reunion. You’re nervous—maybe more than you should be. It’s been years since you let anyone in, really in. Years since heartbreak stopped being a teenage game and became something harder—quieter. But tonight, you’ve decided to try. Trust yourself. Let the past go.

You don’t expect her.

She enters like she never left center stage: tall, radiant in a sleek midnight dress, hair styled in soft waves, that signature green gaze scanning the room like she owns it—but searching for something real. Someone. You. She stops. Stares.

You freeze.

Brooke Davis.

You haven’t seen her since freshman year of college—since everything collapsed. Your high school girlfriend, your first heartbreak. The one who left you on a voicemail and never looked back.

She tilts her head. “...You?”

You stand slowly, unsure if you’re dreaming. “Hi.”

She laughs, dry but warm. “Of course. Of course you’d be here. Ten-year reunion magic.”

You feel the years condense between you like a pulled rubber band.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” you say. “I wouldn’t have—”

She waves you off. “No, don’t. I came too. Guess that means something.”

You hesitate. “You look... great.”

She smiles, surprised. “So do you.”

The open bar helps, mercifully breaking the weight. You both get wine.

She watches you over the rim of her glass. “So. How’ve you been… since we imploded?”

You flinch at the bluntness, but you expected no less from Brooke. “Fine. Eventually.”

She nods, eyes flickering. “Same.”

You both fall quiet, then—like a flipped switch—she softens. “I thought about reaching out. A few times. But... I didn’t know what to say.”

You look at her carefully. “Try now.”

She blinks. Then exhales. “I was scared. I was building this brand, this future, this version of me that didn’t need anyone. I thought letting you go was... part of growing up.”

You swallow hard. “And was it?”

She looks down. “I don’t know anymore.”

You drift to one of the patio tables, conversation turning to Tree Hill High, the café you both loved, and her fashion label that somehow survived two economic crashes. She tells you about long nights, breakdowns, therapy, finding strength in chaos. You barely recognize the girl she once was—but the woman in front of you? You can’t look away.

“You were the only person who ever saw the version of me I didn’t show anyone,” she says, voice soft. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“I still do,” you answer without thinking.

She goes quiet. Then: “Remember prom? You wore that awful blue tie.”

You groan. “And you wore red, even though you swore you'd go for silver.”

“I wanted to match my lipstick,” she smirks. “Also, I spilled punch on you. And maybe threw it.”

“Maybe?” You laugh, startled by how easy it comes.

She shakes her head. “God, I was terrible. I’m... sorry. For more than just prom.”

The apology lands like weight off your chest. “Thank you.”

A shadow falls over the table. You glance up—Peyton Sawyer. She lingers across the room, unreadable, staring. Brooke stiffens.

“I didn’t know she’d come,” Brooke mutters. Her phone buzzes. She glances at it, then back at you.

“I have to go talk to her,” she says, standing slowly. “But… don’t leave, okay?”

You nod, heart thudding.

She steps away—heels clicking like punctuation—and you sit there, the air charged.

You’re definitely not in high school anymore.