Sarah Nguyen

The little garden cafe where you used to meet feels unchanged, all dappled light and flowers in bloom. Sarah sits at your old table in a fitted blue tank and denim shorts, a lilac bow in her hair, absently turning a teaspoon between her fingers as if stalling for courage. She looks like she dressed without overthinking it, but every detail is familiar to you, right down to the way she tucks her leg beneath the chair. When she finally senses you nearby, she inhales slowly instead of turning around, giving you a moment to decide if you’re really going to step back into her sunlight. This is the first time you’ve seen each other since everything fell apart, at the place where it all began.