The old spot. Our café, where we'd shared lazy mornings and whispered futures before everything shattered. I agreed, my heart a storm of dread and reluctant hope. Sleep evaded me that night, memories replaying like a broken reel: her laugh in the rain, the injury that shattered my dreams, the snap imof ligaments, the doctor's verdict being the catalyst and her hand slipping from mine as she walked away, that being the final blow. What did she want now? Forgiveness? A second chance? Or does she just to ease her own guilt? Sunday dawned crisp, the kind of morning that promised change but delivered only wind-swept leaves. I arrived early at the café, the bell above the door chim like a distant memory. The place hadn't changed at all same old booths, same aroma of fresh brew and cinnamon rolls. I sat in our corner table, nursing a black coffee that tasted like bitterness personified. Then she walked in at exactly 10 on the nose. White. Still beautiful in that effortless way, her dark hair shorter now, framing eyes that carried a weight I didn't recognize. She spotted me, and slid in opposite me, offering a tentative smile. "Lecklose," she said softly, her voice steady but filled with hesitation. "You look... good." I nodded, not trusting myself to speak yet. We ordered—her, a latte with extra foam, just like always—and the small talk danced around the edges: the weather, the town, how La Crox had grown but stayed the same. Finally, I couldn't hold it in. "Why now, White? After all this time?" She looked down at her cup, stirring it slowly, as if the answers were hidden in the foam. "I owe you an explanation. And an apology. God, Lecklose, I'm so sorry." Her eyes met mine. "When I left... it was the worst possible timing. You were hurting from the injury, your career gone in a blink. I knew that. But I was scared. Not just because of what it meant for us, but for me. I had been accepted to that program abroad months before the accident, the one in Paris for graphic design. It was my dream, something I'd applied for on a whim before everything happened. When the acceptance letter came, right before your accident... I panicked. I thought if I stayed, I'd resent you, or probably you leaning on someone who was halfway gone, we'd drag each other down. It was selfish, I know I should have been your anchor and not the one cutting the line. I convinced myself leaving clean was kinder, but it wasn't. It was cowardly. I should've fought for us, been there when you needed me most. Instead, I ran. I'm sorry, Lecklose. I truly am, for the timing, and for the silence that followed. " Her words hung in the air, simple and raw, like a confession long overdue. No grand excuses, just the truth: fear, ambition, regret. I felt a sting, not just of old pain, but of understanding. "You could've said something," I murmured. "Anything. No response to all my messages after all these long years. Instead, you vanished." "I know," she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek." I read everyone of them and I've regretted it everyday. But replying felt like reopening a door I slammed shut already." We sat in the ensuing quietness, the café's hum a distant backdrop. She spoke of her life abroad in measured tones.. Paris was... a dream and a cage. The city was alive, cobblestone streets, late nights sketching by the Seine. I graduated top of my class, landed a job at a design firm. I even got engaged to Cephias, a curator I met there. He's kind, steady. But success didn't fill the hole I left here. Coming back to La Crox. my mom's sick, so I'm helping out, it forced me to face it.. I didn't expect to reach out, but seeing your name in my contacts... I had to try. I'm sorry for the pain I caused, especially when you were already broken." I sat there, absorbing it. The apology didn't erase the scars, but it softened them, like rain on parched earth. Her engagement landed like a quiet blow, not jealousy but a finality. She'd moved on, built a life. We talked more, her sharing snippets of her life abroad: late nights sketching in cafés overlooking certain things, the thrill of her first exhibition, the homesickness that crept in during quiet moments. She mentioned classmates who'd become friends, one in particular standing out. "There was this girl, Rachelle, she was in my program, quiet but brilliant. We shared a studio for a semester. She had this way of seeing beauty in everything, even the chaos of deadlines. Last I heard, she was moving back stateside for a job. Funny how paths cross." Rachelle. The name hit me like a thunderclap, my coffee cup nearly slipping from my hand. White didn't notice my reaction, continuing on about some group project they'd done together. But my mind raced. Rachelle, could she be my angel from that one fateful day, had she been White's classmate? In Paris? Trying to tie everything together for it to make sense. The world felt smaller, twisted in a plot I couldn't have scripted. White had no idea I knew her, or prolly she wasn't my
Rachelle or let me say that Rachelle, that Rachelle was the ghost I'd carried for years, the untouched dream contrasting her betrayal. I kept it to myself, the
revelation too raw, too surreal to voice. We parted with a hug, kinda awkward but genuine and a promise to stay in touch, though I wasn't sure what that meant yet. Closure, I thought.