Chapter 7 – The Almost-Reunion

When I walked into the café, he was already there.

Same faded hoodie. Same boyish smirk. But something in his eyes had changed.

Or maybe I had.

He stood when he saw me, pulling me into a hug like no time had passed. His arms still felt the same. Warm. Familiar. But I didn’t melt into him this time.

I didn’t close my eyes and forget.

I stayed stiff. Present. Watching.

We sat by the window. I ordered tea. He ordered a black coffee, like always.

For a while, we just talked. About nothing. About everything.

Work. Travel. Our families. Music.

Avoiding the elephant in the room like we didn’t both carry it on our backs.

Then, somewhere between small talk and silence, he said it.

“I thought about you every day.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Because there was a time when I would’ve given anything to hear those words.

Now, they felt… late.

“I’ve changed,” he added, like it was the answer I was still searching for.

I studied him. The way he fiddled with his cup. The slight twitch in his jaw when he felt nervous.

It was the same man.

And maybe he had changed.

But I had, too.

And we weren’t changing in the same direction.

He asked to see me again.

Said we didn’t need to “rush anything,” that he just wanted to rebuild what we had slowly.

I said yes.

Not because I wanted to go back.

But because I wanted to be sure.

The next few days were a blur.

We fell into rhythm too easily. Laughing at the same old jokes. Sitting in his car listening to the same playlists. He kissed me once, slow and soft, like he was afraid to ruin the moment.

And for a second, I let myself fall.

Not into him — but into the memory of us.

Into the comfort of something known.

Even if it had once broken me.

But the cracks were still there.

Little things.

How he interrupted me mid-sentence.

How he brushed off conversations that got too deep.

How he said, “You look good now,” as if my body had been the problem before.

I remembered how badly I had punished myself to be “good enough.”

And here he was — validating the version of me that nearly disappeared just to please him.

It made my skin crawl.

We were lying on his couch when it hit me.

His arm was around me. The TV was playing something in the background we weren’t really watching.

He looked peaceful. Content. Like nothing had ever happened.

And I realised… he wanted the old dynamic back.

He didn’t want to meet the new version of me — the stronger, wiser, more self-loving woman I’d become.

He wanted the girl who made herself small. The one who apologized for everything.

The one who would’ve stayed, even when it hurt.

I wasn’t her anymore.

“I don’t think this is right,” I said quietly.

He turned to me, confused. “What do you mean?”

“This… us. It feels nice. But it’s not real. It’s just nostalgia.”

His face shifted. Defensive. “So that’s it?”

I nodded. “I loved you. I’ll always care. But going back would be a betrayal to everything I’ve fought for.”

He sat up. “I’ve changed, though.”

“I know. But it’s not just about you anymore. I’ve changed, too.”

There was a silence — thick, final, undeniable.

He didn’t beg. He didn’t argue.

He just looked at me like he was watching something slip through his fingers.

And he was.

Because this time, I wasn’t leaving in pieces.

I was walking away whole.

As I stepped outside, the air felt different.

Crisper. Lighter.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t question.

I just walked.

For the first time in a long time, I was walking toward myself — not away from someone else.

⸻

He never messaged again.

And I never looked back.

Because closure doesn’t always come with perfect words or final hugs.

Sometimes, it comes in the quiet knowing:

This chapter is over.

And I’m not rewriting it.