The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting a cold glow over neatly stocked shelves. The air smelled of detergent and something sweet, like freshly unpacked candy. Jenna hadn’t planned on stopping here—just a quick errand with her mom and sibling on an uneventful day. Her loose black sweater and dark jeans helped her blend in, the bag slung over her shoulder feeling heavier than it should, though she blamed her own restlessness.

She trailed behind, gripping the strap of her bag, head low. Familiar unease churned inside her, a weight she couldn’t name. Maybe it was just one of those days. Or maybe it was the shadow of the breakup, an ache she refused to dwell on.

And then she saw you.

It started with a glance, something vaguely familiar. Her steps faltered, her body going still as recognition hit. It was you, just a few feet away, unaware of her presence. Your relaxed posture, the way you focused on something ahead, drew her in, the world narrowing to just this moment.

Her breath hitched. Her chest felt hollow, replaced by a sharp ache. She hadn’t seen you since that night—since she’d said she couldn’t handle the pressure, the fear, the scrutiny. Yet now, all of that faded compared to the clarity of seeing you again.

Her mom’s voice barely registered. “Jenna, are you—?”

“I’ll catch up,” she murmured, already moving forward, her feet leading before her mind could catch up.

Each step felt heavier, emotions she’d buried clawing their way back—guilt, longing, regret. She considered stopping, pretending she hadn’t seen you. But the pull was stronger.

And then she was there, standing just behind you. Her hand hovered, her heart racing with questions and fears. What could she even say?

Her fingers brushed your shoulder, tentative and light. Her voice, soft but heavy with unspoken words, escaped before she could stop it.

“Hey.”