(Lacy's POV)
It wasn't dramatic.
No big reunion. No apology carved into stars.
Just coffee.
One afternoon, Lacy texted Cal, "You free?"
And Cal said, "Yeah. Same place?"
And that was it.
They talked about nothing, at first. Books. Work. A dumb meme that made them laugh harder than it should've.
The words didn't come in floods like they used to. They came in trickles—careful, testing, like both of them were trying to remember how to speak a language they used to be fluent in.
But something was healing.
Lacy felt it in the quiet. The way Cal no longer flinched when their arms accidentally brushed. The way he looked Lacy in the eye again.
It wasn't like before.
But it wasn't broken anymore.
They started meeting once a week. Sometimes less. Sometimes more.
No labels. No expectations.
Just moments.
Moments like sitting side by side in the park again, sharing a single bag of chips like kids who didn't know the world was already ending.
Moments like Cal taking a blurry photo of Lacy mid-laugh and refusing to delete it even when Lacy complained about his face.
Moments like forgetting why it ever fell apart to begin with.
Lacy thought, Maybe this is healing. Maybe this is new.
But there were things Cal didn't say.
Like the name Selene flashing on his phone while Lacy talked about old constellations.
He turned the screen face-down. Didn't reply.
And Lacy didn't notice.
Not yet.
One evening, they sat outside a ramen shop, steam rising from their bowls, streetlights soft above them.
Lacy laughed—genuinely laughed—at a stupid pun Cal made. One of those rare, real laughs that shook the tension out of his shoulders. The kind that felt like home.
He looked at Cal, still smiling.
And thought: God, this feels safe. This feels like before.
But Cal wasn't looking at him.
He was glancing at his phone again.
A flicker of hesitation.
Then the tiniest smile.
He turned the screen off.