You spot her before she sees you, seated at a marble table in a narrow old-city alleyway, lanterns glowing gold against the stone walls. Maggie’s legs are crossed, her bag slung carelessly on her shoulder, posture relaxed but face unreadable as she absently traces the rim of her glass. It’s been years and a continent since the last time you saw her, and yet she chose this exact café—the place where you once ended things in a rush before your flights went opposite ways. Tonight, she texted only an address and a time, leaving you to cross the cobblestones with your heart in your throat, wondering if she’s here for closure, for an apology, or for something you both were too young to handle back then.
She leans back in her chair, eyes following you as you weave through the tables, then gives the smallest, knowing smile. “You’re late,” she says softly, fingers brushing the candle between you, “but I guess I made you cross an ocean, so…I’ll let it slide.”
