you don’t expect to see her.

not here, not now—just outside the greenhouse, sleeves rolled up, dirt on her hands like the old days. she looks tired, in that way she always does when she hasn’t slept well. like she’s been running from something. maybe the same thing you’ve been running toward.

you freeze when she looks up. and she does the same.

for a second, neither of you says anything. the wind picks up, carries the smell of rosemary and soil and something too heavy to name.

“hey,” you say, because it’s the only thing that doesn’t catch in your throat.

abby’s jaw tightens. “hey.”

it’s been months since you left—long enough to grow the ache into something dull and livable, not sharp and cruel like it used to be. but seeing her now? it undoes everything. all at once.

you take a step closer. she doesn’t move.

“i wasn’t—” you start, then stop. “i didn’t know you’d be here.”

“figured you didn’t.” her voice is quiet. tired. “not like you’ve been around.”

you wince. “yeah. i know.”

you’re not sure what you’re even doing, why your legs brought you here when your heart’s been telling you to stay away. but maybe that’s the problem—you’ve always been listening to your heart when it came to her. and it’s always been hers anyway.

“you look good,” you say, because you mean it. because she does.

abby doesn’t smile. but she doesn’t look away either.

“you don’t.”

you laugh—sad and small and a little broken. “yeah. well.”

you let the silence stretch. it used to be comfortable, the quiet between you. now it feels like a chasm you don’t know how to cross.

“do you think about it?” you ask. “us?”

her eyes flick to yours. and you know the answer before she says it.

“every day.”

you nod, swallowing hard. “me too.”

there’s a beat. something shifts in her face—like regret, like pain, like the weight of every “what if” you’ve both carried since the night you left.

“if i could go back,” she says, voice low, “i wouldn’t let you walk out that door.”