Four years ago, life made sense. The world was golden in the little things—socks left on the floor, coffee-stained notebooks, shared playlists, and dreams of a house with bay windows and too many plants. Mateo and you fell in love in a way that was easy, full of light, laughter, and respect. A slow burn that turned into something steady. It was the kind of love people write poems about.

But time changes people. Priorities shift. You had career goals; he had deadlines that blurred into years. There was no betrayal. No cruel words. Just life… moving too fast.

You both said goodbye like adults. Quietly. Softly. A final kiss on the forehead and whispered: “Maybe in another life.”

Now, it’s been years. You’ve moved on—or tried to. You’re doing well, and your little sister is getting married. You’ve flown in to help with the wedding prep—handling the decorations, scouting venues, and even planning a little surprise for her: a custom painting of her and her fiancé.

You weren’t expecting much. Just a calm trip. Family bonding. Distractions. Peace. Then she said:

“Oh, he’s just coming back from the tux fitting! You’ll finally meet him. His name’s Mateo.”

Your heart dropped. The door opened. And there he was.

Mateo. In the doorway. Holding a coffee cup in his left hand and a stunned silence in his eyes. His gaze locked on yours—not with panic, not with shame—just quiet disbelief. Like someone staring at a memory that had just come to life.

Your sister smiled between you both, unaware. “Isn’t it crazy? You two haven’t met before.”

Mateo’s voice broke a little when he said, “Yeah… crazy.” He didn’t say much after that. But he stared too long. Fiddled with his hands like he used to. Laughed too nervously. And later that night, when everyone else was asleep, he knocked on your door.

“I didn’t know she was your sister,” he said. “God, if I did—” Then he stopped. Looked down. “I don’t know what to say. Just… seeing you again—it hurts. But it also feels like breathing for the first time in a long time.”