“Saw for the first time.” I cringe, hating my shitty answer. “I’m sorry, Devin. I’ve been sorry for years.”
She looks at her lap, and a long moment passes. When she looks up, her eyes are wet. “Thank you. I’m glad that you finally understood what it’s like. Even if it was too late for us.”
“I saw it too late. Way too late.”
“I just wish...” Her face turns to the window. Her voice drops to barely a whisper. “I wish I’d been the person you could have really seen. Not some other patient years later.”
My inhale burns. “Me, too. You gave me so much support, and I made your condition about me. When you couldn’t come to games, I acted like you were choosing to abandon me.”
“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad. I just want to share...”
“Please. Go ahead. You deserve to say all of it.”
She presses her fist to her chin. “The way you acted really messed me up. After you, it took me a year after we broke up to admit to myself that I wasn’t exaggerating my symptoms, just like you always said I was. I’d internalized your voice. Every time I needed to rest, I’d hear you suggesting I was being lazy. Every time I couldn’t push through, I’d hear you saying I wasn’t trying hard enough.”
“I’m sorry.” The words are pathetically inadequate.
“I was gaslighting myself with your words. It took two therapists and my friends to make me see that.” Her eyes flash. “I’m finally in a good place, and—and...”
“And now I’ve come in and messed with that.”
She stares at me, mouth slightly open. “No. I’m happy to see you.”
I must have misheard. “You’re happy to see me?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “I am. I’ve thought about you, Oliver. More than I probably should have. I’ve...” She bites her lip. “I’ve missed you.”
Fireworks pop under my skin. “I’ve missed you too. Every damn day.”
We sit in that shared admission, the moment heavy with possibility and regret. The coffee shop continues around us—the hiss of the espresso machine, the bell over the door—but we’re in our own bubble.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“I don’t date.” The response is instant.
My eyebrows climb. The Devin I knew was always in a relationship.
“I haven’t dated since our breakup,” she announces. “I realized that dating just isn’t for me, you know? I’m more like my mom in that way than I thought.”
I stare at her, probably looking confused, and she must misinterpret my expression.
“It’s not that I was so hurt after we broke up that I couldn’t stand to date or anything like that.” The words come fast. “I haven’t been pining after you. I just... chose to focus on other things.”
I raise my hands. “For sure. No judgment.”
But she just told me she’s missed me. And what we had was real—the kind of deep relationship that reshapes you. Her statements don’t quite mesh, but I also don’t have all the information.
As for me, I’ve missed her like I’ve been living in a permanent drought. I’ve dated some—a sports reporter for three months, a physical fitness instructor for two months, a few others. But nothing truly fulfilling has crossed my path. They were pleasant enough, but compared to what Devin and I had, they were like comparing a candle to the sun.
It’s always been Devin. It will always be her.
Even if we never speak again after today, she’ll continue to be the one.
Devin’s phone beeps. She checks it, and her face falls. “I have to run. Staff meeting I forgot about.”
“Of course,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed. It feels like we just sat down.
She stands, gathering her coat. “Thanks for coffee, and for... talking. It was good.”
