The first time I saw him again, he was laughing.
Not awkwardly.
Not nervously.
Not like someone carrying years of guilt in his chest.
Just laughing.
Like he never disappeared.
The café smelled like coffee and rain. Someone behind me was arguing over a missing order, the espresso machine screaming every few seconds, but all I could hear was that laugh.
His laugh.
I stared before I could stop myself.
Five years.
Five whole years, and my body still recognized him before my mind did.
He looked older. Sharper around the edges. Taller somehow. His hair was shorter now, and there was a silver watch resting around his wrist that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
But his eyes were exactly the same.
Warm enough to ruin me twice.
My fingers tightened around the paper cup.
Don't look at him.
Don't let him see you first.
Too late.
His smile disappeared the second our eyes met.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
The universe should've shaken.
Something dramatic should've happened after carrying someone inside your chest for half a decade.
Instead, a waitress walked between us and asked if anyone ordered caramel cold brew.
I almost laughed.
That's the cruel thing about life. Your world ends privately. Nobody notices.
He started walking toward me.
Slowly.
Like approaching a wild animal that might run if startled.
Or bite.
Every step made my heartbeat worse.
I hated that.
I hated that after everything he did, my heart still reacted before my brain could remind it what kind of person he was.
"You disappeared," I said before he could speak.
No hello.
No how have you been.
Just the truth.
Something flickered across his face.
Guilt maybe.
"Hi to you too," he said quietly.
Same voice.
God.
Same voice.
I looked away first.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Embarrassing.
"You look different," he said.
"So do you."
"That's usually what happens after five years."
I should've left then.
Normal people would've left.
But heartbreak changes you into someone strange. Someone who stays even when every part of them is screaming to run.
He glanced at the empty chair across from me.
"Can I sit?"
"No."
He sat anyway.
Of course he did.
That used to be his thing — crossing lines softly enough that people mistook it for charm.
For a few seconds, silence stretched between us.
Heavy. Familiar.
Dangerous.
"You cut your hair," he said.
"You ruined my life."
His jaw tightened.
Good.
Let him feel uncomfortable for once.
Outside, rain hit the windows in soft violent waves. The entire café glowed gold against the storm, warm enough to make strangers look romantic.
Years ago, this was exactly the kind of weather that made me love him harder.
Now it just made me tired.
"I didn't know you still lived here," he admitted.
"I didn't know you were alive."
His eyes lifted to mine again.
There it was.
That expression.
The one that used to destroy me.
Like he wanted to say something honest but didn't know how.
"I deserved that," he murmured.
Yes.
He did.
But hearing him admit it felt worse somehow.
I swallowed slowly and stood up before my emotions could embarrass me.
"I have to go."
He stood too.
"Wait."
I froze.
Not because of the word.
Because of the way he said it.
Like he'd been searching for me longer than he wanted to admit.
"I know you hate me," he said carefully. "But can we at least talk once?"
I laughed softly.
Actually laughed.
That surprised both of us.
"You think this is hatred?"
His expression fell.
And suddenly, after years of imagining this moment, I realized something terrifying.
I didn't hate him.
I wished I did.
Because hatred would've been easier than carrying the ghost of someone who left without warning.
"You broke me," I whispered.
The café noise blurred around us.
"And the worst part is…"
My throat tightened.
"You never even noticed when it happened