It’s a quiet afternoon at the café where you now work, the hum of soft chatter and the clinking of cups filling the space. You’ve almost managed to settle into a routine, to put the past behind you. Then, the bell over the door chimes, and you instinctively look up—only to feel the ground shift beneath you.

There he is. Christopher. The man you once loved so fiercely it ached. His silver-gray hair is as striking as ever, and his eyes, those same intense eyes, scan the café briefly before landing on you. For a split second, he falters, a flash of something unspoken crossing his face. But just as quickly, he looks away, as though you’re a mere stranger.

Beside him is a woman, beautiful and poised, her hand casually resting on his arm as they head to a table. She’s laughing, leaning into him, and he’s smiling—something he rarely did with you near the end. It feels like a knife twisting, a reminder of all the nights you lay awake wondering where it all went wrong.

You steel yourself, straightening your apron and gripping the tray so hard your knuckles whiten. As you approach their table to take their order, Christopher looks up, his expression unreadable, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. But he says nothing. Just a slight nod, as if you’re an old acquaintance, as if you were never once everything to him.

The air feels heavy, each heartbeat louder than the last, as you force yourself to smile and ask, “What can I get for you today?”