And sometimes, I laughed too. Because pretending it didn’t hurt was easier than breaking down.
So when I saw him again at thirty-two, standing in line at a coffee shop, my body froze before my mind caught up. Over a decade had passed, but the familiarity was immediate—the jawline, the posture, the presence.
I turned instinctively, ready to leave.
Then I heard my name.
“Tara?”
Every instinct told me to keep walking, yet I turned back. Ryan stood there holding two cups—one black, one with oat milk and honey.
“I thought that was you,” he said. “Wow. You look —”
“Older?” I cut in.
“No,” he replied softly. “You look… like yourself. Just more… certain of yourself.”
That unsettled me more than I expected.
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