The question hangs in the air between us like a loaded weapon. I watch Scarlett's face carefully, searching for any flicker of hesitation or regret that might betray her true feelings.
Her expression remains steady, but I see something shift in her eyes. Not guilt or longing, but a kind of thoughtful honesty that both reassures and terrifies me.
"You really want to know?" she asks.
"Yes."
She settles back against the couch cushions, creating a small distance between us that feels intentional.
"When I first saw him walk into that restaurant, my heart did skip a beat," she admits.
The words hit me like a physical blow, but I force myself to remain still. To listen.
"But not for the reasons you're thinking. It skipped because I was shocked by how different he looked. Older. More tired. The confidence I remembered seemed forced, like he was trying too hard to project an image."
She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
