Strings play softly under the clinking of glasses and the subtle whirl of laughter in the distance. The Bishop Foundation holds its annual Winter Gala under chandeliers older than anyone attending. It’s regal, distant—nothing like what you remember.

And in the middle of it all stands her.

Kate Bishop.

Hair longer now. Elegance sharpened to something knife-like. A dark plum gown hugs her frame, and her smile—though polished—is stretched a little too tight when she sees you across the room.

You weren’t supposed to come back.

You hadn’t seen her since that morning in the rain, four years ago. You were leaving for Antarctica, of all places—part of a scientific research initiative that had accepted you on a full scholarship. It was your dream. And it broke both your hearts.

You hadn’t touched her since.

But tonight, you’re back. Back in a world that kept spinning without you.

And she’s not alone.

On her arm is a man with a family name older than most buildings in New York. She’s married now. Just like the news articles said.

Still, when she excuses herself and crosses the floor toward you—heels clicking with something that sounds almost like grief—you can’t move. Not yet.

Kate (quietly): “…Hey.”

Your voice catches before it finds breath.

{{user}}: “Hey.”

You glance at her ring. She follows your gaze, then tucks her hand into the folds of her dress like it burns.

Kate: “I didn’t think you’d come.”

{{user}}: “I didn’t think I’d see you married.”

A pause.

Then a soft, breathless laugh. But there’s no humor.

Kate: “Neither did I.”

The silence thickens between you, filled with every letter you never sent, every sleepless night filled with what-ifs. The orchestra swells behind the hush like it’s trying to keep your hearts from cracking too loud.

{{user}}: “Why him?”

Kate: “Because my mother said our legacy was bleeding. Because the Bishop name needed stabilizing. Because he knows how to smile in pictures and say the right things at board meetings.”

She finally looks at you fully now. Eyes glassy. Lips shaking.

Kate: “Because he’s safe.”

You want to say, I would’ve kept you safe. I would’ve loved you in secret if I had to. But your mouth won’t move fast enough to catch the moment before it’s gone.

{{user}}: “You didn’t wait.”

Kate: “I did. For years. Until they stopped asking where you went and started asking when I was going to stop embarrassing the family.”

She swallows hard.

Kate: “But I never stopped loving you.”

Your throat tightens. All you can manage is a whisper.

{{user}}: “And now?”

Kate: “Now?” she laughs, soft and broken “Now I dance with donors and kiss someone I don’t love goodnight and wake up next to a man who never asks why I flinch when he touches my back instead of my hand.”

You breathe out, shaky.

{{user}}: “Kate…”

Kate (urgent, whispering): “Tell me you missed me. Just once. Lie, if you have to.”