Old Wounds don't Stay Buried

I drop my bag on the desk harder than I mean to.

The sound cracks through the quiet office, sharp enough to make two people look up. I don’t apologize. My chest already feels too full, like one wrong breath will split me open.

“This project will define you… and me.”

Leo’s words from last night won’t leave my head. They sit there, heavy, like they’re waiting for something. Or daring me to run.

I open my laptop, then close it. Open it again. My hands won’t settle. My body is here, but my mind keeps slipping. Backward. Years backward.

Senior year. Rain-soaked sidewalks. His voice saying my name like it meant safety.

I hate that it still does.

“Skye.”

I look up. Leo stands a few steps away, sleeves rolled up, coffee in hand. Too casual. Like we’re not walking on landmines.

“We’re starting the design review in five,” he says.

“I know,” I reply, sharper than needed.

His eyes flick over me. He notices everything. He always did.

“Did I interrupt something?”

“No,” I say. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” he says lightly.

I scoff. “You’re one to talk.”

Something tight flashes across his face. Gone just as fast. He turns and walks away, and I hate myself for watching how his shoulders move under his shirt. Hate my body for remembering things my brain wants buried.

The meeting starts messy.

Ideas fly. Opinions clash. The room buzzes with energy, but there’s an edge to it. Everyone’s careful. Watching us. Waiting for sparks or a blowup.

“This layout feels safe,” I say, pointing at the screen. “We need to push harder.”

One of the designers nods. Another hesitates.

Leo leans back in his chair. “Safe isn’t always bad.”

I look at him. Really look. “Safe doesn’t change markets.”

A pause.

“Neither does reckless,” he replies.

Heat crawls up my neck. “It’s not reckless if it’s intentional.”

“And if it fails?” he asks calmly.

“Then we own it,” I shoot back. “That’s the point.”

The room goes silent. All eyes swing between us.

Leo holds my gaze. Long. Testing.

Finally, he says, “Let’s explore both options.”

It sounds reasonable. It feels like a dodge.

The meeting ends, but the tension doesn’t. It follows me back to my desk, coils in my stomach, tight and restless.

I try to focus. I really do. But my brain betrays me.

Flash.

Leo and me in the campus library, whispering between shelves, my foot hooked around his ankle like I needed to anchor him to me.

Flash.

His dorm room. Midnight. Music low. My fingers tracing the scar on his collarbone while he watched me like I was something rare.

Flash.

The email.

The one that ruined everything.

I swallow hard and blink at my screen. My chest aches like it did back then. Like I’m bracing for a hit that already landed.

Back then, I thought I knew what betrayal felt like.

I remember staring at my phone, reading the words over and over. Proof. Screenshots. Him supposedly telling someone else I was a distraction. A phase. That he couldn’t wait to be done with me.

I never asked him if it was true.

I just broke.

I remember the fight. My voice shaking. His confusion turning to anger. Him asking where this was coming from and me refusing to say, because saying it out loud felt worse than dying.

I told myself leaving was strength.

It didn’t feel like it.

“Skye.”

I jump.

One of my coworkers, Mina, stands there with a tablet. “Leo wants updated mockups by end of day.”

“Of course he does,” I mutter.

She hesitates. “For what it’s worth… your ideas this morning were solid.”

I look up. “Thanks.”

She gives me a small smile and walks away.

The day drags.

At some point, Leo stops by again. He stands too close. Not touching. Worse.

“You’re pulling back,” he says quietly.

“I’m working.”

“You’re holding something,” he counters.

I glare at him. “This isn’t therapy.”

His mouth curves slightly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

I stand. Suddenly I need air. “I need space.”

He steps aside, letting me pass. His arm brushes mine. Just barely.

My breath stutters.

I hate that my body reacts like it’s been waiting for him all these years. Hate that part of me still knows the exact shape of him.

In the hallway, I press my palm to the wall and breathe.

Get it together, Skye.

This isn’t college. This isn’t love. This is work.

Still, the past keeps bleeding through the cracks.

Later, when I’m grabbing water, I hear raised voices in the conference room. I don’t mean to listen. I really don’t.

“…risk bringing her back,” someone says.

I freeze.

Leo’s voice answers, low but clear. “She’s not a risk.”

A pause.

“She left once,” the other voice presses.

Something in my chest twists.

Leo doesn’t hesitate. “Because she was hurt.”

Silence stretches.

Then he says it.

“I never stopped trusting her.”

The words hit me like a punch.

I stand there, cup trembling in my hand, heart slamming so loud I swear they can hear it through the glass.

Never stopped trusting me?

My brain scrambles. That doesn’t fit the story I’ve been telling myself for years. It doesn’t line up with the anger I’ve been feeding.

I step back quietly, pulse racing, head spinning.

If he trusted me… then what really happened back then?

And why does it suddenly feel like everything I believed might be wrong?