Then, one afternoon, everything I thought I had buried came rushing back.
I was standing in the cereal aisle of a supermarket, debating which brand Noah preferred these days, when I saw her. At first, my brain rejected the image outright. It felt impossible—like spotting a ghost in fluorescent lighting. But the longer I stared, the more undeniable it became. The way she stood with her weight on one hip. The slight tilt of her head as she read labels. Even older, with a different haircut and lines around her eyes, she was unmistakably Lisa.
My heart slammed against my ribs. My mouth went dry. For a moment, I wondered if exhaustion or memory had finally broken something in me.
But she turned slightly, and I saw her profile.
It was her.
I moved before I could think myself out of it, my legs heavy, my chest tight. “Lisa?” I said, barely trusting my voice to work.
She froze. Slowly, she turned around, and when her eyes met mine, the color drained from her face. The shock in her expression mirrored my own, raw and unfiltered.
“Bryan?” she whispered, like saying my name might shatter whatever fragile reality had placed us in the same space again.
