CHAPTER FIVE

​Naomi

After putting Sophie to bed, I stand by the window, staring at the city lights flickering in the distance. My reflection stares back, thin, composed, unrecognizable from the girl I used to be.

But inside?

Inside, I’m still the same girl.

Still fragile.

Still full of wounds no one sees.

I press my forehead to the glass. The cold shocks my skin but grounds me.

Tomorrow, they’ll hold that reunion.

Tomorrow, people will continue saying I died.

Tomorrow, Peter might hear lies about me. I can't stop.

And I’m powerless to change any of it.

​

After Sophie falls asleep, I linger in the hallway longer than necessary, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest. Her small hands are curled under her chin, her hair tangled from the wind. A part of me wants to curl beside her and let exhaustion swallow me whole. But I know if I close my eyes, the memories will come back again, relentlessly.

So instead, I walk quietly to the living room, the lights dimmed low, the city outside humming like a restless engine. LA at night is a strange thing, soft in patches, chaotic in others. It mirrors the shape of my heart lately.

I sit at the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, hands pressed to my face. My fingers tremble.

He didn’t recognize me.

He looked straight at me and saw nothing but a stranger.

Isn’t that what I wanted?

Isn’t that what I hoped for when I changed everything about myself?

But the truth, the truth is brutal.

​

I didn’t realize how deeply it would cut.

There’s a sting at the back of my eyes, but I blink it away. Crying won’t fix anything. It never has. I wipe my palms against my jeans and stare at the coffee table where the old photo still sits in a lopsided frame.

I reach for it reluctantly.

​

The girl in the picture doesn’t feel like me anymore. She used to smile with her whole face, round cheeks, messy hair, softness everywhere. Peter stood beside her, his arm awkwardly brushing her shoulder, as if he was trying to hide the closeness from the world while still wanting it desperately.

That memory hits me like a punch.

​

I place the photo face down and stand up abruptly, pacing the living room. I need space. Air. Something. Anything to keep the ache from expanding.

I slide open the balcony door, stepping outside. The wind tangles my hair, cool and sharp. The city glows beneath me, an endless grid of lights stretching in every direction, cars moving like small, determined creatures along the highway. I grip the railing.

“Breathe,” I whisper to myself. “Breathe, Naomi.”

I inhale deeply. Exhale slowly.

My phone buzzes.

A message from Lina again.

Lina: Everyone’s coming. Even Peter. You sure you don’t want to show up?

The text punches air out of my lungs.

I type, delete, type again, delete again.

Finally, I settled on:

Naomi: No. Stop asking.

I close the balcony door behind me, cutting off the city noise. Inside, the silence is more suffocating than the wind.

I lean against the wall, pulling my knees up, hugging them tight. The thought of him at that reunion, laughing, drinking, pretending nothing ever happened, twists something inside me until it hurts.

A part of me wonders, if he sees my name on a list, will it matter?

Will it even trigger a memory?

My throat tightens.

Probably not.

​

​Peter

I wake up before sunrise, the sky still a dull gray outside my window. Sleep never came; instead, I drifted in and out of shallow consciousness, flashes of Naomi’s face breaking through the dark.

​

I shower longer than necessary, letting hot water hit my back, hoping it will loosen the knot lodged behind my ribs. It doesn’t.

By the time I leave my apartment, the morning air is cool, the streets still quiet. I stop for coffee at the shop near the hospital, and the barista greets me with a smile like she does every day.

​

“Long night?” she asks kindly.

I nod. “Something like that.”

She doesn’t push. She never does. I appreciate that.

When I reached the hospital, the fluorescent lights hit me like a splash of cold water. The day begins, patients, charts, rounds, small complaints, and major fears. I bury myself in the rhythm, hoping it will drown everything else out.

​

But every now and then, my mind drifts.

Back to Naomi’s voice.

Her eyes.

Her hesitation.

I catch myself replaying every moment of yesterday’s appointment. How she held herself, calm, but guarded. The slight tremor in her voice. The way her fingers tensed when they brushed mine.

It feels like déjà vu.

Like muscle memory.

Like a ghost brushing past.

After an intense surgery in the afternoon, I take a break in the quiet room, leaning against the wall, exhaustion pressing against my bones. My phone buzzes with another alumni message.

​

 Naomi

​

My heart jolts. I stare at the screen, my fingers hover above it.

Naomi Wells.

Not Chloe Cheng.

​

But something in me tightens, instinctively.

Could names change?

Could faces change?

Could a person reinvent themselves so completely?

A question forms that I cannot shake.

What if I was the reason she disappeared?

The quiet room suddenly feels too small. The air is too thin. I leave, pushing the door open, needing something to drown the thoughts buzzing in my head.

​

​

Naomi 

​

At home, I try focusing on work. I force myself to sketch. To design. To pretend everything is normal.

But everything feels wrong in my hands, Lines tremble, Shapes collapse,  Concepts blur.

I erase every attempt until the paper nearly tears.

​

“I can’t do this,” I mutter, tossing the sketchpad aside. I stand, rubbing my temples, pacing the room again. When I finally stop, I’m standing in front of the hallway mirror.

I stare at the reflection, thin, composed, controlled. But the woman in the mirror feels like a mask. And underneath…

​

Underneath, I’m that girl again.

Chloe.

Cheng.

Chubby.

Stupid.

Unworthy.

​

All the names they gave me. All the labels they carved into me. All the words they said  filled my ears until I believed them.

I close my eyes.

I shake my head.

No.

I’m not her anymore.

And yet… the hurt remains rooted in the deepest parts of me.

​

Peter

After my shift ends, I don’t go home immediately. Instead, I walk to my car slowly, dragging my feet as if something is holding me back.

I sit in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing for long minutes.

There are names you forget.

Faces you forget.

Moments you bury.

But there are some things, some people, that refuse to fade.

​

Chloe was one of them.

I take the silver pen from the glove compartment, running my thumb along the engraved initials.

​

C.Q.

​

I shouldn’t  have this.

Why am I still thinking about her?

But I do.

More now than ever.

And the more I try to form the separation between Naomi and Chloe, the thinner that line becomes.

​

Naomi 

That night, after dinner, Sophie cuddles beside me on the couch, wrapped in her pink blanket. She draws little hearts on her tablet, humming softly to herself.

I smile weakly and stroke her hair.

​

“Mom,” she says suddenly, looking up, “why don’t you want to go to the reunion? Everyone goes.”

I try to answer, but my voice cracks.

“It’s complicated,” I eventually say.

She blinks. “Will they be mean to you?”

The breath gushes out of me.

“Why would you say that?”

She shrugs like a little philosopher. “Because grownups can be mean too.”

A single tear drops down my cheek.

I wipe it quickly.

“Yes, sweetheart,” I whisper. “They can.”

She leans her head against my shoulder. “I’ll go with you and protect you.”

The innocence breaks me.

“Maybe someday,” I whisper.

Inside, I know one thing for certain: The past isn’t done with me.

Not even close.

​

Peter 

​

Later that night, after I leave the hospital, I slow my car outside the Century Plaza Hotel, where the reunion is being held. The lobby glows through the glass, warm light, laughter, too many people gathered at the bar, dressed up like they’re still trying to impress the ghosts of who they used to be.

I don’t go inside.

​

But I sit in my car long enough to see faces I recognize drift in and out of the revolving doors.

​

My phone buzzes, another message in the alumni thread.

​

— Naomi Wells isn’t coming?

— Didn’t she RSVP?

— She disappeared. Like she always does.

​

The comments are flippant, careless. They slide right under my skin.

I exhale, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

I didn’t come here for nostalgia. I didn’t come for small talk. The truth, I don’t want to admit,  is that I came because I thought she would.

​

I had half-expected… No, not expected. I hoped that she might walk through those glass doors.

​

I wanted to see her in a different setting, without the distance of white walls and medical equipment. I wanted to see how she carried herself in a room full of people who used to gossip  behind her back. I wanted to see if she would meet my eyes.

​

But she didn’t come.

Instead, I’m watching strangers laugh under the chandelier while the one person I wanted to see is nowhere.

I glance at the entrance again, couples walking in, old classmates hugging, someone shouting my name, even though I have no intention of stepping out of this car.

It all feels pointless.

The disappointment sits in my chest like a weight, unexpected and strangely personal.

Why should it matter? She’s just a patient’s mother,

Just a stranger, just I stop the lie mid-thought.

​

The truth is simple:

Her absence feels like a door closing before I could  even reach it.

A door I never had the courage to knock on seven years ago.

I put my car in drive and pull away from the curb, leaving the reunion lights behind.

But the hollow feeling stays.