The café near campus was buzzing just enough to feel alive, but not loud enough to ruin a good conversation.
Amelia sat by the window, her fingers wrapped around a cup of cappuccino, watching the steam curl upward like it had somewhere to be.
Outside, students passed in waves—backpacks, earbuds, laughter. Inside, everything felt slower, softer, like time had taken a deep breath.
Thomas arrived with that same calm stride she remembered—and a crooked smile—and in his hands, two muffins.
"Hey," he said, sliding into the seat across from her.
"Hey," she replied, her voice softer than she expected.
They sat in a moment of quiet, the kind that didn't feel awkward. Just… comfortable.
"I didn't know what you liked," he said, placing both on the table. "So I got one with chocolate chips and one that looks suspiciously healthy."
Amelia raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm a chocolate chip girl?"
"I think you're secretly both," he said, sitting down. "Balanced chaos."
She laughed. "That's… alarmingly accurate."
They each picked a muffin, and Thomas immediately regretted his choice.
"This one tastes like regret and kale," he muttered.
Amelia grinned. "Mine tastes like childhood and bad decisions."
"Trade?"
"Absolutely not."
After a few bites and some laughter, they settled into quieter conversation, letting the easy familiarity take over.
They talked about classes, professors who still used overhead projectors, and the weird vending machine in Building C that only worked on Thursdays—if you whispered to it.
"I swear it's haunted," Thomas said. "I once got a can of tuna instead of soda."
"That's not haunted," Amelia said. "That's sabotage."
He leaned back, watching her with a smile that lingered a little too long.
"You know, I missed this," he admitted.
"What, muffins and vending machine trauma?"
"No. You. Talking to you. Laughing like this."
She looked down, brushing a crumb off her lap. "Yeah… me too."
A barista passed by, tripped slightly, and spilled a splash of coffee on the floor. Thomas instinctively reached for napkins, knocking over his muffin in the process.
"Wow," Amelia said, laughing. "You're really committed to the sitcom energy today."
"I'm just trying to impress you with my reflexes and clumsiness. It's a package deal."
She laughed again, and for a moment, everything felt simple. No cameras. No scripts. No expectations—just coffee, crumbs, and someone who remembered the pieces of her that had quietly wandered away.
"After high school… I almost didn't recognize you," he said, stirring his coffee. "You've changed."
She laughed. "Everyone says that. I guess college does that to people."
"Not just college," he said, looking at her. "You seem… more sure of yourself."
She tilted her head. "Do I?"
He nodded. "But you still have that same look when you're thinking too hard."
She smiled, biting the inside of her cheek. "You remember that?"
"I remember a lot."
They shared stories about internships gone wrong, old classmates, and the little quirks of campus life.
Somewhere between the second sip and the third smile, Amelia felt something shift—not dramatically, just gently, like her shoulders had dropped a little, like her breath had slowed.
Thomas leaned back, watching her with that quiet attentiveness she hadn't felt in years.
"I'm glad we ran into each other," he said.
"Me too," she replied.
He paused, then added, "I used to wonder about you. After high school. You kind of disappeared."
Amelia looked down at her cup, tracing the rim with her finger. "Yeah… I guess I did."
"Was it intentional?"
She hesitated. "Not at first. But then it became easier to stay away than to explain."
Thomas didn't push. He just nodded, sipping his coffee.
"I get that," he said. "Sometimes disappearing feels safer than being misunderstood."
She looked up, surprised by how well he'd phrased it. "Exactly."
They sat in silence again, but this time it was heavier. Not uncomfortable—just full. Full of things unsaid, of years missed, of versions of themselves they hadn't shown each other yet.
"So… what do you do now? I mean, outside of classes?" he asked, leaning forward.
Amelia hesitated. "Some freelance stuff. Media-related. Photography, editing…"
"Sounds cool."
"It can be," she said, smiling faintly. "Sometimes it's just… a lot."
He nodded. "You always liked creating things. I remember your short film project. The one with the shadows and the voiceover."
She blinked. "You remember that?"
"Of course. It was weird and brilliant."
She laughed, genuinely now. "Weird is accurate."
"I liked it. It felt honest."
Amelia looked at him, really looked. And for a moment, she felt like maybe she hadn't disappeared completely. Maybe someone had been watching from afar, remembering the pieces she thought were lost.
Outside, the light shifted. Afternoon crept in. But inside, the moment stayed warm.
No cameras. No scripts.
Just coffee. Just Thomas.
Just Amelia.
Thomas took another sip of his coffee, then leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table.
"So, be honest," he said. "Did you ever think we'd end up here? Like… this?"
Amelia tilted her head. "You mean in a café, eating muffins that taste like regret?"
He laughed. "I mean… talking again. After all this time."
She looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know. I think part of me hoped we would. But I didn't expect it to feel this easy."
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "It's weird, right? Like no time passed, but also… everything did."
Amelia smiled, stirring the foam in her cup. "You always had a poetic side."
"I blame my mom. She used to write quotes on sticky notes and leave them on my lunchbox."
"Seriously?"
"Yep. One time she wrote, 'Be the change you wish to see in the world,' and I traded my sandwich for a cookie. I thought that counted."
She laughed, the sound spilling out freely now. "That's adorable."
"I was a very philosophical eight-year-old."
They sat in the warmth of that laughter for a moment, letting it settle between them like sugar in tea.
Then Thomas glanced at her, more serious now. "So… what's something you've never told anyone?"
Amelia blinked. "That's a bold question."
"I know. But I figured, if we're doing this—really reconnecting—maybe we skip the small talk."
She hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around her cup. Then she looked out the window, watching a couple walk by, arms linked, heads tilted toward each other.
"I used to pretend I was someone else," she said quietly. "Not all the time. Just… when things felt too heavy."
Thomas didn't interrupt. He just listened.
"I'd imagine a version of me that didn't overthink everything. Who didn't feel like she had to be perfect or invisible. Just… someone who could breathe without checking if it was okay first."
He nodded slowly. "And now?"
She looked back at him. "Now I'm trying to remember who that version was. Or maybe become her for real."
Thomas reached across the table, not touching her hand, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of the gesture.
"I think she's still in there," he said. "I think she's sitting right in front of me."
Amelia didn't speak. She just smiled, soft and quiet, like something inside her had exhaled.
The barista called out an order. A spoon clinked against a saucer. Outside, the light shifted again.
But inside, the moment held.
Thomas was mid-sentence, something about a professor who still used transparencies, when Amelia's phone buzzed against the table.
She didn't think — just reached for it automatically, eyes flicking to the screen.
Her smile faded.
Not completely. Just enough for someone who knew her to notice.
She locked the screen without replying and placed the phone face down beside her cup. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the device, just long enough to betray something.
Thomas paused, watching her.
"Everything okay?"
Amelia blinked, then nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just… group project stuff. You know how it is."
She reached for her coffee, took a sip she didn't need, and forced a smile.
"So," she said, voice lighter than before, "do you still play guitar? Or was that just a phase?"
Thomas hesitated for half a second, sensing the shift, but followed her lead.
"Still play," he said. "Badly. But I've upgraded from garage solos to annoying my neighbors."
She laughed, but her fingers tapped the side of her cup now, rhythm uneven.
The moment hadn't shattered. But it had cracked — just enough for something else to seep in.
Thomas's phone buzzed on the table.
He glanced at it, then sighed softly, the kind of sigh that didn't carry frustration—just inevitability.
"My dad," he said, showing her the screen. "He needs help at the pizzeria. Big delivery rush."
Amelia smiled. "Back to the family business?"
"Always," he said, standing and grabbing his jacket. "It was really good seeing you."
She stood too, brushing crumbs off her jeans. "We should do this again."
Thomas laughed, warm and easy. "Definitely. It was… really good."
They lingered for a second, neither quite sure how to end it. No hug, no dramatic goodbye—just a quiet moment that felt like the beginning of something.
He gave a small wave, already stepping toward the door.
Amelia watched him go, the warmth of the afternoon still wrapped around her.
She sat back down, pulled her cup closer, and let the silence settle like sugar in tea.
And for a while, it stayed.