They talk about her like a ghost. But she doesn’t haunt.

She arrives. Softly. Silently. Like a thought you thought you’d buried.

They tell the story like it was torrid. Forbidden. Violent with passion.

But here’s the truth:

She never touched a single one of them. Not really. Not the way they wanted. Not the way they still dream about. Not the way that leaves fingerprints—but the kind that carves space inside you. Just in case.

She never kissed Art, but he remembers her breath as she whispered his poem back to him at 3AM.

She never slept with Patrick, but he still checks hotel lobbies for her ghost.

She never fought with Tashi. That would’ve been simple.

No—she agreed with her. Quietly. Intellectually. And that was worse.

She was a mirror held too steady. An answer none of them wanted to hear.

And now? She’s back.

Not for them. But they all act like she is.

And the worst part?

She’s perfectly kind.

She smiles. She nods. She says “You look good” with no venom at all. She asks about their projects. Their families. Their stress levels.

She compliments Tashi’s shoes. Tells Art she’s proud of the book. Thanks Patrick for the drink.

She gives them nothing to fight with. Nothing to hold.

And they unravel anyway.

Because deep down, they know—

“Don’t worry. I’m not here to ruin your curated dysfunction.”

Art laughs—the shaky, nervous kind. Patrick stares. Tashi glares.

“You never had to try, did you?”

Tashi’s contemplating murder. The quiet kind. The kind reserved for the only true friend she ever had.

“No,” she says. “You ruined yourselves just fine.”

She leaves with a nod and a breath that’s too cruel to be a laugh.

She’s back.

And they’re so, so fucked.