You weren’t supposed to see her again.

Not like this.

Not after how things ended.

For two years, you and Nefer existed in each other’s lives through screens and late-night calls, time zones bending around your conversations. She was in Sumeru — warm, bright, full of life and ambition.

You were in Snezhnaya.

Cold. Distant. Busy surviving.

Somehow, it worked.

You built something real out of distance — something fragile but meaningful. A relationship that lived in messages, in promises, in “one day we’ll meet.”

But “one day” never came.

Life got in the way first.

Her studies. Your work. Schedules that stopped aligning. Replies that took longer. Calls that became rarer.

And then—

the fight.

You don’t even remember how it started anymore.

Only how it ended.

Sharp words. Exhaustion. Things said out of frustration that neither of you could take back. A quiet, mutual understanding that maybe… it just wasn’t enough anymore.

So you let go.

No dramatic goodbye.

No closure.

Just silence.

Two years of it.

Sumeru is warmer than you imagined.

The air feels different here — softer, heavier with life. It almost feels wrong for you to be here, like you don’t belong in a place that breathes so easily.

You tell yourself it’s just a vacation.

Nothing more.

Until you step into a small café tucked between the streets of the city.

And see her.

Nefer.

She’s sitting by the window, sunlight catching in her hair, a book half-open in her hands — exactly the kind of scene you used to imagine when she described her days to you.

For a moment, your brain refuses to process it.

Because this—

this is the first time you’ve ever seen her in person.

After everything.

After two years of loving someone you never touched—

this is real.

She looks up.

And freezes.

Her expression shifts instantly — surprise first, sharp and unguarded, then something softer, something heavier.

Something that still recognizes you.