I had never been the type to believe in fate. I always thought life was a string of choices, cause and effect, and whatever came after was simply the result of decisions we made. But that was before that Thursday evening, before the traffic lights stopped me outside the café on Moore Street, before the glass doors slid open and she walked out.
Amara.
It had been five years since I last saw her. Five years since we ended what I had thought would be my forever. Five years since I'd convinced myself I'd moved on. Yet in the space of a heartbeat, everything I had buried came rushing back like a flood—her laugh, her smile, the warmth of her hand in mine, the sting of our final words.
I sat frozen behind the wheel of my black Honda, gripping the steering as though it might anchor me in reality. She hadn't seen me yet. She was laughing at something on her phone, hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, that same easy elegance she carried even back when we were university sweethearts.
My chest tightened. God, she hadn't changed much, except maybe she seemed more mature, more composed—like a woman who had seen the world, been broken by it, and somehow pieced herself back together stronger than before.
The honk from the car behind me snapped me out of my trance. The traffic light had turned green. I should have driven off. I should have let her walk back into her life, untouched, unbothered, while I returned to mine. But instead, my foot lingered on the brake, my eyes glued to her as she slipped her phone into her bag and adjusted the strap on her shoulder.
And then, as if fate had grown impatient with my hesitation, she looked up.
Our eyes met.
For a moment, time stilled. Her steps faltered, her lips parting slightly as recognition dawned. I saw it—the flicker of surprise, the guarded hesitation, and something else hidden deep in her gaze. Something I wasn't sure I had the right to name anymore.
I rolled down my window slowly, forcing a smile that felt far more nervous than I intended.
"Amara," I called, my voice betraying a tremor.
Her brows arched, and then the corners of her lips curved into a small, cautious smile. "Daniel."
Hearing my name in her voice again did something strange to me. It was as though the years between us collapsed, and I was twenty-one again, waiting for her outside her hostel after lectures, eager just to steal a few hours of her time.
"You look… different," she said, stepping closer to the curb. "Older. But still the same."
I chuckled awkwardly. "I could say the same about you. More beautiful, though. Time's been kind."
She laughed lightly, that familiar sound tugging at my chest. "You still flatter too easily."
The car behind me honked again, louder this time. I sighed, pulling into the empty parking space just beside the café. Part of me knew I should have just driven away, left things as they were. But another part—the reckless, hopeful part—was desperate for just a few more moments.
"Do you… have time?" I asked as I got out of the car, scratching the back of my neck. "Maybe for coffee? Or is that too much to ask?"
Amara studied me for a second, her eyes unreadable. Then she nodded. "Coffee sounds fine."
⸻
Inside the café, the scent of roasted beans and baked pastries wrapped around us. I followed her to a corner booth, memories swirling with every step. We had spent countless afternoons like this before—studying, arguing about trivial things, or simply sitting in comfortable silence. The nostalgia was suffocating.
We ordered our drinks—her usual caramel latte, my black Americano. Some things never changed.
"So," she began once we settled into our seats, her fingers tapping against the ceramic mug. "How have you been, Daniel? It's been… what, five years?"
"Five years, four months, and—" I caught myself and cleared my throat. "Yeah. It's been a while."
Her lips quirked. "Still counting?"
I shrugged, embarrassed. "Some things are hard to forget."
Her eyes softened briefly, then she looked away, focusing on her drink. "I've been… good. Work's been keeping me busy. You?"
"Work too," I said, though it sounded inadequate. In truth, I had buried myself in my career as an architect, climbing ladders, chasing deadlines, anything to silence the echo of what I'd lost.
There was a pause, filled with the unspoken weight of everything we hadn't said. I wanted to ask her about her family, her life, whether she was seeing someone. But the words stuck in my throat, afraid of the answers.
Instead, she asked, "Are you still drawing in your free time? You used to sketch buildings on every spare piece of paper."
I smiled faintly. "Yeah. That hasn't changed. It's the one thing that clears my head."
She nodded, and for a brief moment, her gaze lingered on me with something tender, almost nostalgic.
The silence stretched again, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence we used to share when words weren't necessary. Except now, it carried the burden of history, of wounds that had never fully healed.
I finally found the courage to ask, "Do you ever think about us?"
Her eyes widened slightly, and she let out a soft sigh. "Daniel…" She set her mug down, fingers tracing the rim absently. "Sometimes. But the past is… complicated."
Complicated. That was one way to put it. We had been young, foolish, blinded by pride and ego. Our breakup had been messy—fueled by misunderstandings, my stubbornness, her temper, and the cruel hand of distance when she left for her internship abroad. Words had been thrown like knives, apologies never given, and by the time the dust settled, it was too late.
"I'm not asking to rewrite the past," I said quietly, leaning forward. "I just… It feels strange, seeing you again after all this time. Like maybe fate's giving us a second chance, at least to talk."
Amara looked at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled faintly. "Maybe. Or maybe fate just likes messing with us."
I laughed softly, though my chest ached. "That sounds like fate."
We spoke a little longer—about work, about mutual friends, about life in general. But beneath every word, there was an undercurrent, a tension neither of us dared to touch fully.
Eventually, she glanced at her watch and sighed. "I should get going. I have a meeting early tomorrow."
I nodded, though disappointment settled heavy in my chest. "Of course."
We stood, and for a moment, I didn't know what to do. Hug her? Shake her hand? Pretend this was just another casual encounter?
She saved me the decision, stepping forward and wrapping her arms briefly around me. The warmth of her body, the familiar scent of her perfume—it was almost unbearable.
"Take care of yourself, Daniel," she said softly as she pulled away.
"You too, Amara."
And just like that, she was gone, walking out into the night, leaving me standing in the middle of the café with my heart in disarray.
As I drove home later, the city lights blurring past, I realized something I hadn't allowed myself to admit in years:
I was still in love with her.