The automatic doors slide open, and suddenly we're outside, standing beneath a sky that's too blue for how unsettled I feel. The airport noise dulls behind us, replaced by the distant hum of traffic and rolling suitcases over concrete.
Ryder walks beside me, close enough that I'm acutely aware of him, but not touching. Like he's giving me room. Or maybe he's afraid I'll bolt.
Again.
"So," he says after a few steps, glancing at me with that familiar half-smile, "this is already going better than last night."
I huff out a breath that's almost a laugh. "I didn't run this time."
"You didn't," he agrees. "I consider that progress."
I shake my head, gripping the handle of my suitcase a little tighter. My heart is doing something reckless inside my chest, like it doesn't understand that this is real and not something I wrote at three in the morning to hurt myself creatively.
We walk in silence for a moment. Not awkward exactly—just careful. Like we're both afraid of stepping on a landmine we buried a decade ago.
"You look… different," Ryder says finally.
I glance at him. "Different how?"
He shrugs, thoughtful. "Calmer. More sure of yourself." His eyes flicker over me, not lingering, just noticing. "You always had that quiet confidence, but now it feels… solid."
Something warm tightens behind my ribs. "You noticed?"
He lets out a short laugh. "I noticed a lot of things back then. I just didn't always understand them."
That lands heavier than I expect.
I swallow. "You look different too."
"Older?" he offers.
"Steadier," I say. "Like you finally grew into yourself."
He smiles at that... soft, almost shy. It's strange seeing that expression on someone who used to feel untouchable in high school.
We reach the curb where people are loading bags into cars, greeting friends, leaving. Lila hangs back a few steps, pretending to be deeply invested in her phone while very obviously listening. I shoot her a look. She grins and mouths, I'll disappear.
And she does.
Ryder and I stand there, the space between us suddenly louder without witnesses.
"I'm glad you replied," he says quietly. "I wasn't sure you would."
"I wasn't sure either," I admit. "I wrote that email three times."
"Only three?" He raises an eyebrow. "I'm offended."
Despite myself, I smile.
He hesitates, then gestures toward the row of cafés across the street. "Do you want to… sit somewhere? Coffee? Tea? Somewhere with chairs, preferably."
This is it. The moment where I decide whether to keep everything at arm's length—or finally stop rewriting the past and face it.
"I'd like that," I say.
Relief flashes across his face, brief but unmistakable.
We settle into a quiet café with wide windows and mismatched chairs. The air smells like espresso and baked sugar. Ryder orders black coffee; I order something lavender and unnecessary. It feels like a choice I would've been too self-conscious to make once.
We sit.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
Then Ryder exhales. "I don't even know where to start."
"Neither do I," I say. "So maybe we don't start at the beginning."
He nods. "Fair."
His fingers tap once against the mug. "I want you to know—I wasn't angry. When I read your book."
My stomach twists anyway.
"I was… surprised," he continues. "And confused. And—" he pauses, searching for the word, "—seen. Which is weird, considering it was written by someone I thought I barely knew."
I look down at my cup. "You knew me. Just not the way I wanted."
Silence stretches between us, fragile and honest.
"That version of me," he says carefully, "the one in your book—was that really how you saw me?"
I close my eyes for half a second. This is the question I've been dodging for years.
"Yes," I say. "And no."
I meet his gaze. "You were kinder than you realized. Louder than me. You filled rooms without trying. And I… I wrote you the way it felt to watch you. From the outside."
He absorbs that, jaw tightening slightly. "I wish I'd known."
"I wish I'd said something," I counter. "But I was scared. And quiet. And convinced that wanting you was already asking too much."
Ryder leans back, eyes on the ceiling for a moment. When he looks at me again, there's something unguarded there.
"I thought you didn't like me," he admits.
I blink. "What?"
"You were always so reserved. Polite. Distant." He laughs softly. "I figured if you wanted me around, you'd… say something."
The irony almost makes me laugh out loud.
"I wrote a book instead," I say weakly.
He smiles. "Yeah. That part I picked up on."
The tension shifts. Not gone, but lighter. Less sharp. Like something old has finally been acknowledged.
"I don't expect anything," Ryder says gently. "I'm not here to rewrite history. I just… didn't want to keep pretending we were strangers."
I nod slowly. "Neither did I."
Outside, a plane roars overhead. Life continues, indifferent to the quiet reckoning happening at our table.
Ryder glances at his watch. "I don't want to rush you. But if you're open to it…" He meets my eyes. "Maybe we could talk again. Not as characters. Just… us."
My heart stumbles, then steadies.
"Okay," I say. "But slowly."
His smile is soft, sincere. "Slow is good."
As we stand to leave, I realize something startling and simple.
For the first time in years, I'm not wondering what I should've said back then.
I'm saying it now.