You had always been good at pretending. Pretending to be fine, pretending to be over him. After all, years had passed since you and he—once the golden couple of campus—called it quits. You told yourself it was mutual. It was amicable. And, most importantly, it was necessary.

Everyone on campus used to envy you both. You were the kind of couple that rom-coms tried to emulate: effortless chemistry, inside jokes, and a presence that made people whisper in the hallways.

But good things often break under the weight of their own perfection. It wasn’t a blowout argument or a scandal. It was two people growing in different directions. So, one evening, sitting on the worn couch in his apartment, you both agreed: it was time to let go.

Still, the friendship lingered, like the faint scent of perfume on an old sweater. You thought you were fine seeing his occasional posts, hearing about his successes from mutual friends. You thought you’d moved on.

Until the reunion.

You’d been careful, keeping conversations light, always positioning yourself just out of his line of sight. It wasn’t that you couldn’t be around him—you’d long since convinced yourself that you were over him—it was just easier this way.

At least, it had been until he moved closer.

“Hey.”

You blinked, looking up from the bubbling pot of broth to find him standing there, hands in his pockets. He looked hesitant, almost awkward, like he wasn’t sure if he should have approached you at all.

“Oh. Hi,” you said, a little too quickly. You cleared your throat, forcing a casual smile. “How’s it going?”

“Good, good,” he said, nodding. “Uh, you? How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” you said, then winced at how curt it sounded. “I mean, great. Things are… good.”

He nodded again, rocking slightly on his heels. For a moment, the two of you just stood there, the sounds of the reunion buzzing around you, but none of it seemed to register.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally, breaking the silence.