ONCE MORE, WITH YOU

VIII

Solené Beckett

I stared at my phone, the message from Summer glowing on the screen:

"Can we talk?"

My stomach twisted in a way that was both familiar and agonizing. For weeks, I'd imagined this moment—her reaching out, opening a door I wasn't sure I deserved to step through. Now that it was here, my fingers hovered over the keyboard, my mind racing.

What could I say?

Of course.
I'm sorry.
I've been waiting for this.

None of it felt right. None of it would undo the damage I'd done.

I typed back the simplest thing I could manage.

"When and where?"

Her response came quickly:

"Tomorrow? 6 PM? Coffee at Bluebird Café?"

The place we always went to. The place that felt like us. It made sense, but it also made it harder.

"Okay. I'll be there."

I hit send and immediately regretted it. Not because I didn't want to go—I did, desperately—but because now it was real. No more hiding, no more excuses. Tomorrow, I'd have to face her.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment that led to this. Leaving her was supposed to be the right choice. I told myself I needed space, time to figure out who I was without her. But the truth was, I was scared. Scared of how much she meant to me, scared of messing things up, scared of everything we could've been.

And leaving didn't make any of it go away. If anything, it made it worse.

I thought about texting her again, something to soften the silence between us. But what could I say that wouldn't feel empty?

The next day felt like a blur. I went through the motions—showering, eating breakfast, pretending to care about the emails piling up in my inbox—but my mind was somewhere else. The clock seemed to tick faster as the afternoon wore on, and by the time 5:30 rolled around, I was staring at my closet, trying to decide what to wear.

I settled on something simple: baggy jeans, a black crop top, and a pair of Golden Goose sneakers.

The drive to Bluebird Café was quiet. Too quiet. My usual playlist couldn't distract me, so I turned the music off and focused on the road, rehearsing what I'd say. But every time I tried to string the words together, they crumbled under the weight of what I'd done.

When I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted her car immediately. My breath hitched. She was already inside, waiting for me.

Walking into the café felt like stepping into a memory. The smell of coffee, the warm lighting, the soft hum of conversation—it was all so familiar, yet it felt like I didn't belong here anymore.

Then I saw her.

Summer was sitting at a corner table, her hands wrapped around a mug. She looked the same but different. Stronger somehow, but guarded. Like she'd built walls I wasn't sure I could climb.

I almost turned around and left. Almost. But then she looked up, her eyes meeting mine, and I knew I couldn't run again.

I walked over, each step heavier than the last, until I was standing across from her.

"Hi, Summer," I said, my voice softer than I intended.

"Hi," she replied, her tone steady but distant.