The New York air hasn’t changed — it’s still heavy with honking taxis, burnt coffee, ambition, and memory. And {{user}}, standing at the edge of the city she once left behind, feels all of it pressing down on her ribs like a heartbeat she forgot how to follow.

It had been almost a year. Almost a full revolution of the earth without Scarlett’s arms, her smile, her perfume in the hallway, her voice in the dark.

People always talk about healing like it’s a straight line. Like you leave, and the pain fades, and you grow. But {{user}} didn’t grow — she just moved. Across oceans, into new apartments, into the arms of women who weren’t Scarlett but wore the same lipstick, who said goodnight but never meant forever.

Coming back was a risk. She knew it. She told herself it was for work. She told herself Scarlett had moved on. But when she saw her name at the event guest list, printed in black ink like it didn’t mean anything, her stomach twisted.

And now, there she was. Scarlett. Talking to someone near the bar, dressed in black like it was armor. Her hair longer, her laugh softer, but unmistakably her. Magnetic. Familiar. Painful.

{{user}} didn’t mean to stare.

Scarlett turned. Caught her. Eyes widening just enough for the mask to slip. For a flicker of something real — shock, heartbreak, maybe recognition — to pass across her face before the smile returned, too careful to be casual.

She crossed the room in slow strides, as if the floor were glass. Like she didn’t know whether to run or stop herself.

“Hey,” Scarlett said, voice low, eyes locked on {{user}}.

“Hi.” It was a pathetic greeting for a past life.

“You’re back.”

“Just for a little while.”

Scarlett didn’t answer right away. Her jaw tightened. “You look good.”

“I’m not.”

Scarlett blinked. “What?”

“I mean… I smile now, and I show up to things, and I act like I’m okay. But I’m not.”

That admission cracked something wide open — in the air, in Scarlett’s expression, in the distance they’d been trying to keep polite.

“I thought you were happy out there,” Scarlett said quietly.

“I pretended to be. I got very good at pretending. Until it stopped working.”

Scarlett tilted her head, her lips parting, her voice fragile. “Why did you leave, really?”

“Because I loved you.” {{user}}’s throat burned, but she didn’t stop. “Too much. Too fast. I thought if I stayed, I’d lose myself. But leaving didn’t fix that either. It just… broke me differently.”

Scarlett looked away. Her fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass. “You broke me too, you know. You didn’t even look back.”

“I did.” A beat. “Every damn day.”

The silence was thick now. Loud. Pressed between them like hands that wanted to hold and hurt at the same time.

“Sometimes,” Scarlett whispered, “I still reach for your side of the bed. And then I hate myself for it.”

{{user}} almost reached for her hand. Almost.

“I never stopped wanting to come back. I just didn’t think I was allowed to.”

Scarlett finally looked up, eyes glossy and dangerous. “You don’t get to just come back and say that.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to look like this, say you’re still broken, and make me feel like I’m bleeding all over again.”

“I didn’t come here to make you feel anything,” {{user}} said, voice breaking. “But I haven’t stopped needing you. And it’s killing me.”

Scarlett blinked away a tear. Her face was still beautiful. Still familiar. Still stitched into {{user}}’s ribs like thread.