Molly stands outside the café, sunglasses on even though it’s cloudy. She keeps pacing, stopping, then pacing again.

“I don’t think I should be here,” she says for the fifth time.

You fold your arms, smiling softly. “You already came. That counts.”

She exhales sharply. “I wasn’t very… nice. Or present. Or real. Why would they even want to see me?”

You step closer. “Because people don’t disappear just because you were struggling. Some of them were just waiting for you to come back.”

She chews on her lip, nervous in a way you don’t often see. “I don’t know how to apologize without sounding like I’m performing.”

“Then don’t perform,” you say gently. “Just tell the truth.”

Inside, the conversation is awkward at first. Old wounds hover in the air. Molly fidgets, talks too fast, then finally stops.

“I messed up,” she says quietly. “I didn’t know how to be there for anyone when I didn’t know who I was.”

There’s silence. Then understanding. Then relief.

Later, walking home, Molly’s arm slips through yours.

“I forgot how good this feels,” she admits. “Being real. Being connected.”