Eternal Ephemerals

Even if it's different

The laughter and clinking glasses of the high school reunion filled the hall, but she barely heard them. Her eyes had already found him.

He stood near the refreshments table, looking at his phone like he wasn't sure what to do with himself. For a second, she considered turning away, slipping into the crowd before he noticed her. But it was too late. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up. Their eyes met, and his face shifted—surprise, then warmth, then something unreadable.

She forced herself to smile as she crossed the room.

"Hey, stranger."

His answering smile was hesitant, but real. "Hey."

Up close, he was the same but different. The same sharp eyes, the same slight tilt of his head when he was listening. But there was an unfamiliar stiffness to him now, a carefulness in the way he held himself. Or maybe that was just how time worked—rounding out the edges of people until they no longer fit quite the way they used to.

"I almost didn't recognize you," he said, glancing at her sleek blazer, the way she held herself. "You look... different."

"Good different or bad different?" she teased, slipping into an old habit.

His mouth quirked. "Just different."

She nodded, accepting that. Maybe that was the only honest answer.

They moved to a quieter corner, away from the buzz of the reunion. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They had spent years filling silence with conversation, but now it stretched between them, unfamiliar and heavy.

"So," he finally said, rubbing the back of his neck. "What have you been up to?"

It was such a simple question, but it felt impossible to answer. How could she explain all the versions of herself she had been since the last time they really talked? How could she sum up the distance that had formed between them, not just in miles but in the subtle ways people grow apart?

"I work in journalism now," she said, going with the easiest answer. "I host debates, panel discussions—mostly political, sometimes cultural."

His eyebrows lifted. "No way. You always did love a good argument."

She laughed. "And you always hated them."

He grinned. "Still do. I take it you've won a few, then?"

"A few," she admitted, smiling. "Not everyone enjoys being proven wrong, though."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I remember." Then, softer, "You always had a way with words."

She wasn't sure what to say to that. Instead, she tilted her head. "What about you?"

"Engineering," he said. "Not as exciting as hosting debates, but it keeps me busy."

She nodded. "You always loved taking things apart."

"Still do. Just... in a more expensive way now."

They both chuckled, and for a moment, it felt easy again. Like muscle memory. Like the past had never frayed. But then the laughter faded, and the quiet returned, and she knew.

This wasn't the same.

She thought back to all the times they had talked endlessly, about everything and nothing, without fear of running out of words. Now, conversation felt like a careful game, both of them searching for common ground, testing if anything still fit.

She had loved him once—not in the way people used to whisper about, but in the way you love someone who understands the very core of you. And maybe she still loved that version of him. The one who knew all her childhood secrets, who had been there for scraped knees and first heartbreaks, who had felt like home.

But the boy she had loved was a memory now. And the man standing in front of her was someone else. Not a stranger, not quite a friend. Just... someone who had once meant everything.

She swallowed the ache in her throat.

"I'm really glad I saw you," she said, meaning it.

"Me too." He hesitated, then added, "Even if it's different now."

Her chest tightened, but she smiled anyway. "Yeah. Even then."

The reunion carried on around them—laughter, conversation, people reconnecting. She could stay here, drag out the conversation, try to hold onto something that had already slipped through her fingers. Or she could let it be what it was: a moment, a memory, something to be grateful for without needing to make it more.

She reached out, gave his hand a small squeeze. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"You too."

And with that, she stepped back into the crowd.

Somewhere in the past, two kids were still arguing over pointless things, still laughing at inside jokes, still promising they'd never drift apart. She would always love them.

But she wasn't that girl anymore. And he wasn't that boy.

And that was okay.