The music pulses through the walls of the crowded house, a steady thrum that mixes with the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. You're leaning against the kitchen counter, when she walks in.

Jenna.

Her acting career had exploded, and the pressure had mounted. The whispers, the expectations, the fear of being seen for what you were together—she couldn’t take it. She ended things. She chose her image, her career, over you. Over this.

Now, she's standing across the room, her gaze flicking over the faces in the crowd until it lands on yours. The shift in her expression is barely noticeable, but you see it—the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers tighten around her drink.

You’ve moved on. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as your heart does that familiar skip, a rush of something—anger, longing—flooding your chest. But then she looks away.

She moves towards you, your fingers curl against the cool countertop, bracing yourself. She’s closer now, standing beside you, the scent of her perfume something achingly familiar.

“Hey,” she says softly, like it hasn’t been months, like she didn’t leave you for the sake of her own comfort.

You look into her eyes—the regret, maybe even guilt evident. But it doesn’t change what happened.

And then, almost as if she can’t help it, she murmurs, “I miss you.”

But the words feel hollow, like the rush of blood to the head when you stand up too fast—brief, dizzying, but gone before you can grasp it. You turn away, because what else is there to say? You’ve already been through this, through her, and survived. You don’t need to go through it again.