And sometimes, I laughed too. Because pretending it didn’t hurt was easier than breaking down.
So when I saw him again at thirty-two, standing in line at a coffee shop, my body froze before my mind caught up. Over a decade had passed, but the familiarity was immediate—the jawline, the posture, the presence.
I turned instinctively, ready to leave.
Then I heard my name.
“Tara?”
Every instinct told me to keep walking, yet I turned back. Ryan stood there holding two cups—one black, one with oat milk and honey.
“I thought that was you,” he said. “Wow. You look —”
“Older?” I cut in.
“No,” he replied softly. “You look… like yourself. Just more… certain of yourself.”
That unsettled me more than I expected.
“What are you doing here?”
“Picking up coffee. And apparently, running into… fate. Listen, I know I’m probably the last person you want to see. But if I could just say something…”
I neither agreed nor refused. I waited.
“I was so cruel to you, Tara. And I’ve carried that for years. I don’t expect you to say anything. I just wanted you to know that I remember everything. And I’m so sorry.”
No jokes. No smirk. His voice shook with sincerity. I studied him, searching for the boy I once knew.
