Seven years had passed since the divorce papers were signed — seven years since Clare’s name stopped meaning morning coffee and shared glances and started tasting like absence. I’d left the courthouse hollow, built a small, quiet life in a third-floor walk-up outside Chicago, and convinced myself the ache had faded into routine.

Then, on a random Saturday in a bookstore, I heard my name spoken in that old, impossible tone. I turned and saw her: the same hazel eyes, a few gray threads at her temples, a smile that was both nervous and familiar. The city noise receded, and for a moment it was just the two of us among rows of other people’s stories.

We exchanged the awkward, honest niceties — “You look good,” “So do you” — and I felt the old pull I thought I’d buried. She looked worn in a way that made me ache; the years hadn’t been kind to either of us, but they’d left something real behind.

When she asked if I had a minute, the past and present collided. I realized some meetings aren’t planned, and some conversations you can’t predict — only decide whether you’re brave enough to have.