I always thought I would be prepared for this moment.
I imagined myself calm. Maybe even indifferent. I imagined seeing him again and feeling nothing more than a small ache, the kind that fades quickly if you ignore it long enough.
That was what I practiced in my head for years.
What I didn't imagine was my hands shaking just from hearing his laugh.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't even meant to be noticed. Just a soft sound, careless and easy, like he had nothing heavy sitting on his chest. Like life hadn't once broken him in two.
That laugh reached me before my eyes did.
And suddenly, the room felt smaller.
I was standing near the back, half listening to a conversation I didn't care about, nodding at the right moments. My mind was already tired, already elsewhere. Then the sound cut through everything, sharp and familiar, and my heart reacted before I could stop it.
It tightened. Hard.
I froze.
For a second, I told myself I was imagining it. That memory does that sometimes—it plays tricks on you when you're least prepared. I had heard his laugh in my dreams before. In quiet moments. In the middle of the night when sleep refused to stay.
But this felt different.
This felt real.
I turned slowly, almost afraid that if I moved too fast, whatever I was chasing would disappear. My eyes scanned the room, passing faces I didn't recognize, voices I didn't care about.
And then I saw him.
He was standing near the window, light from outside brushing against his face like it belonged there. Like the world still knew how to find him. He was talking to someone, smiling slightly, one hand in his pocket like he had nowhere else to be.
Like he wasn't standing in the middle of my past.
My breath caught.
Five years.
Five years and he still looked like the kind of man people trusted without thinking twice.
He had changed, yes. Anyone would have. His hair was shorter, his jaw sharper, his body filled out in a way that spoke of time and responsibility. But there was no mistaking him. Not for me. Not ever.
Because I loved that face before it learned how to hide things.
I stared longer than I should have. I knew it. I felt stupid for it, but I couldn't stop. It was like my eyes were trying to confirm he was real, like if I looked away too soon, he might vanish.
My chest started to ache.
I remembered the last time I had seen him this close. How his eyes couldn't quite meet mine. How his hands shook when he said goodbye. How I wanted to scream and cry and beg him to stay, all at the same time.
Instead, I let him go.
That was the bravest and stupidest thing I have ever done.
Someone brushed past me, pulling me out of my thoughts. I blinked, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt. Like he could feel me staring. Like he could sense the way my heart was unraveling right there in public.
I told myself to look away.
I didn't.
As if the universe was enjoying this, he stopped talking and lifted his head. His eyes moved across the room, slow and curious, until they landed on me.
And just like that, everything broke open.
The smile on his face disappeared instantly. Not faded. Disappeared. Replaced by shock so clear it hurt to see. His body went still, like he had walked into a memory he wasn't ready to face.
His eyes widened slightly.
I knew that look.
He recognized me.
My throat tightened. I swallowed, suddenly unsure of what to do with my hands, my face, my entire body. I felt too visible, too open, like all the years I spent pretending I was fine had just been exposed in one look.
For a brief moment, neither of us moved.
The room kept going. People laughed. Glasses clinked. Music played softly in the background. Life continued, unaware that two people were standing at the edge of something dangerous.
Then he took a step toward me.
Just one.
It felt like a question.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I didn't move. I wasn't sure I could. Part of me wanted to run. Another part wanted to close the distance between us and pretend the past didn't exist.
He stopped when he noticed my hesitation.
Something crossed his face then. Regret, maybe. Or guilt. Or something much worse.
Something unfinished.
I wondered, suddenly, if he had ever thought of me the way I thought of him. If I ever showed up in his quiet moments. If leaving me had been as hard as staying away.
I wondered too much. I always did.
He opened his mouth, like he was about to say something.
My name, maybe.
Before any sound came out, someone called his name from behind him. Loud. Casual. Real.
He flinched.
I hated that I noticed.
He turned slightly, responding to whoever it was, breaking the moment like it was fragile glass. When he looked back at me, his expression had changed. More controlled. More careful.
The man he had become.
That scared me more than anything.
Because I knew the boy he used to be.
And I loved him.
I wasn't sure I could survive loving this version too.
If love had a second chance…
why did it feel so much harder than the first?