The Stranger

Chapter 19 - Cassandra

The cafeteria felt as cold as the hospital corridors we'd walked through to get here, its fluorescent lights casting an unkind glow on the chipped tables and worn linoleum floors.

And there he was.

John sat across from me, his denim jacket draped over the back of his chair. His transformation was stark, almost jarring. Gone was the long, greasy hair I remembered—now it was cropped neatly, parted to the side, framing a clean-shaven face that looked rested and alive. His tired, hollowed eyes, once weighed down by a haze of drugs and regret, now shone with a clarity I hadn't seen in years.

He looked... good. Too good, in fact, in his white collared shirt, buttoned all the way up, grey cropped trousers, and spotless white sneakers. He wasn't the careless art student I remembered—he had become a curated version of himself, polished and composed.

We sat in silence, the weight of unspoken years pressing on my chest. The coffee arrived, its aroma doing little to cut through the tension.

"What the fuck are you doing here, John?" The words came out sharp, unfiltered.

He looked up, startled, then smirked, his fingers curling around his cup. "Well, I'm good, Cassie. Thanks for asking."

I bristled. "What did you expect me to say? You show up out of nowhere, at my mum's hospital room, no warning, no explanation—"

"I deserved that." His voice was calm, disarming. "But it's not like I could call you, could I? Your mum has more social media than you do, and I haven't had your number in years. When I saw her Facebook post about being in hospital, I... worried. I came to see her. Seeing you was... unexpected."

He sipped his coffee, as though we were catching up over brunch and not unearthing old wounds in a hospital cafeteria.

My parents had loved him. When we were together, he was practically part of the family—a second child to my mum and dad. When Dad passed away, John had been there for all of us, grieving as deeply as I had. For that, I'd always been grateful.

But that was then.

"Okay." My voice softened, surprising even me. "I'm sorry, J." The nickname slipped out before I could stop it. "I just... wasn't expecting to see you again."

He smiled, faint but genuine. "You look amazing, Kitty."

The old pet name hit like a shockwave, rippling through years of buried emotions. I took a long sip of coffee to cover my unease.

"Margaret told me you've got some big-shot job at PSC. Congratulations."

"Thanks," I said, narrowing my eyes. "And why is my mum talking to you about me?"

He laughed softly. "She's proud of you, Cassie. You're all she talks about. It was... nice to hear you're doing well. It made me happy."

His tone was so genuine it was almost disarming.

"Well," I said cautiously, "since you know everything about me, tell me about you."

His smile faltered. "After you left..." He stopped, clearing his throat before continuing. "I fell apart. Completely."

I remembered the day I walked out—every detail etched into my memory. We'd been living together, trying to build a life while he juggled art school and I worked two jobs to keep us afloat. But he'd stopped trying. He quit school, quit painting, quit everything, burying himself in weed and wasting hours with his deadbeat friends. The man I fell in love with had become a stranger—a lazy, resentful one.

I left a note. Packed my things. Moved in with Lisa. And I changed my number because he wouldn't stop calling.

"I overdosed," he said quietly, breaking the silence. "Ended up in hospital. That was my rock bottom. But... they helped me. I started painting again. Taking photographs. Eventually, I moved to Germany."

"Germany?" My surprise bled into my voice.

He nodded. "It saved me, Cassie. I'm sober now. I've got an exhibition in Berlin next weekend. My work—paintings, photographs—it's all there."

"John, that's amazing." And I meant it.

"Thanks, Kitty." His smile softened, then turned wistful. "One of the reasons I wanted to find you was to invite you. To the exhibition. I thought... I thought you might want to see it."

The hope in his voice stung more than it should have.

"John..." I started, wary of where this was headed.

"It's not what you think," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "This isn't some grand gesture to win you back. Don't flatter yourself." He grinned, and for a moment, I saw the boy I used to love.

"Excuse me," I said, feigning offence. "I'm perfect. I should flatter myself."

He laughed, a sound that was equal parts familiar and foreign. "No, seriously. I just thought it might mean something to you. You were always my biggest supporter, even when I didn't deserve it."

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat, remembering how much he hadn't deserved it.

"Can I think about it?" I asked, my voice softer than I expected.

"Of course." He slid a white envelope across the table. "Details are inside. Opening night is Friday. By invitation only. Bring a plus one if you want."

We finished our coffees, exchanged a quick kiss on the cheek, and went our separate ways. He left for Germany; I returned to my mum's room, his words echoing in my mind.

You can bring a plus one if you want.

My thoughts drifted to Alex.

"Maybe he'll come with me," I murmured to no one in particular, a small smile tugging at my lips.