I didn't expect to see him again.
Not here.
Not like this.
Not when I had finally convinced myself I was doing fine.
The lecture hall smelled like old books and new beginnings. Voices echoed off concrete walls, laughter spilling too loudly from people who hadn't learned restraint yet. College felt like a fresh start—anonymous, clean, untouched by the past.
That illusion shattered the second I looked up.
Noah Reyes was standing three rows ahead of me.
Same broad shoulders.
Same careless posture.
Same presence that used to make my chest tighten before I even knew why.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
My fingers curled around my notebook, knuckles whitening. I told myself it was just shock. Just coincidence. Just the universe being cruel in its usual, predictable way.
Then he turned.
Our eyes met.
And just like that, the past came rushing back.
Not softly.
Not gently.
But violently—like it had been waiting for permission.
His gaze froze on mine, something unreadable flashing across his face. Surprise. Guilt. Hunger. I couldn't tell which scared me more.
I looked away first.
I always did.
The seat beside me creaked as someone dropped into it. "You okay?" Maya whispered, already digging through her bag.
I nodded too quickly. "Yeah."
Lie.
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure Noah could hear it. I kept my eyes forward, focusing on the blank screen at the front of the hall, willing the professor to start talking. To drown out the noise in my head.
Because the last time I'd seen Noah, I'd been standing in a doorway I never should have opened.
The last time, my best friend's laugh had cut through the air like glass.
The last time, I'd learned how quiet betrayal could be.
A chair scraped.
I didn't look. I refused to.
But I felt it—the shift in the air, the awareness that crawled up my spine. Noah had moved. I knew the rhythm of his presence too well. The way he filled space without trying.
"Aria."
My name landed softly. Carefully.
I hated that it still sounded like that when he said it.
I stood abruptly, the chair legs screeching against the floor. Heads turned. Maya shot me a look, but I didn't care.
"I need air," I muttered, already moving.
I didn't run. I wouldn't give him that. I walked out with my head high, pulse racing, hands shaking just enough to betray me.
The hallway was quieter, sunlight streaming through tall windows. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes.
I was not seventeen anymore.
I was not naïve.
I was not the girl who loved him without fear.
I heard footsteps.
Slow. Familiar.
"Aria," Noah said again, closer now. "Please."
I opened my eyes.
He stood a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn't trust them. His hair was shorter, sharper. His jaw more defined. He looked… older.
So did I.
"You shouldn't talk to me," I said flatly.
"I know."
"Then don't."
He swallowed. "I didn't know you'd be here."
"That makes two of us."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with everything unsaid. I could feel it pulling at me, dragging me backward, toward memories I'd spent months burying.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
The words were too late. Too small.
I laughed—once, sharp and humorless. "You don't get to say that like it fixes anything."
"I know it doesn't," he replied. "But I've thought about it every day."
That made something inside me snap.
"You think I haven't?" I shot back. "You think I didn't replay that night over and over, wondering what I missed? Wondering when you stopped choosing me?"
His face tightened. "It wasn't like that."
"It always is."
I pushed off the wall, stepping past him. Being this close was dangerous. I could smell his cologne—different, but familiar enough to hurt.
"Noah," I said, my voice low, steady. "Whatever we were… it's over."
He turned, desperation breaking through his control. "Is it?"
I stopped.
That was the problem, wasn't it?
Because some betrayals don't kill love.
They twist it.
They leave it bruised and breathing.
I faced him slowly. "Don't do this. Not here. Not now."
His eyes searched mine, like he was looking for permission. For forgiveness. For something I didn't know how to give.
"Then when?" he asked.
"Never," I said.
Another lie.
I walked away before he could see it written all over my face.
Because the truth—the one I would never say out loud—was this:
Seeing him again didn't hurt because I hated him.
It hurt because part of me still wanted him.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.