I almost called in sick that morning. No dramatic reason—just exhaustion, the emotional kind that doesn’t go away after a night of sleep or a second espresso shot. I’d been sleepwalking through life for weeks, and the thought of pretending to care about milk alternatives and fake smiles made me want to crawl back under the covers. But rent doesn’t pay itself, and I was already two weeks behind. So I showed up to the café, tied my apron, and told myself I’d make it to the end of my shift without crying in the walk-in fridge.

Around noon, the sidewalk tables were filling up. It was one of those warm spring days where everyone suddenly remembers they love fresh air and small talk. I was outside bussing a table, balancing a plate with the remains of a croissant and an empty flat white cup, when I heard a bark.

I turned, and for a second I thought my brain was playing tricks on me.

It was her.

Carys.

I hadn’t seen her in over a year—not since I ghosted her without a word, shut off everything that tethered us, and tried to pretend like none of it had happened. She looked… the same. Maybe even better. Her chestnut hair still fell in lazy waves over her shoulders, and she still had that infuriatingly soft smile that made everything feel like it might be okay.

But now she had a dog.

A wiry little mutt that looked like it had been pulled straight out of a kids’ adventure movie, all scruffy fur and too-big ears. It barked once, sharp and cheerful, and Carys smiled like that bark was some kind of inside joke.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just tied the dog’s leash to the chair, sat down like she came here every Thursday at noon, and looked up at me like I was a stranger who almost seemed familiar.

I froze. My hand clenched so hard around the plate I nearly dropped it. I fumbled the croissant crumbs into the bin and wiped my palms on my apron, trying not to visibly shake.

Then she said it—just one word.

“Hey.”

Like we’d spoken yesterday. Like nothing had ever been broken.

I forced a breath, grabbed a menu, and handed it to her without meeting her eyes. “I’ll be right back.”

But she wasn’t looking at the menu. She was looking at me.

“I didn’t come for coffee,” she said.

Her voice was soft, but it cut right through the noise around us. I heard it over the hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of ceramic, the hum of people chatting. I heard it in the part of me that had never stopped missing her.

I crouched next to the dog, pretending to pet it so I wouldn’t have to look at her. My heart was pounding like I’d just sprinted a mile.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I muttered.

“I know.”

“You should hate me.”

“I tried,” she said, her voice lighter now. “Didn’t work.”

The dog licked my hand, tail thumping against the chair leg. I laughed—just a little, just enough to break the ice—and it felt like the first time I’d remembered how.

I stood up, brushing dog hair from my knees. “You can’t just show up like this.”

“Apparently, I can,” she said. “And I did.”

I didn’t know what to say. There were too many words that didn’t fix anything. I couldn’t explain why I left, why I shut down the way I did. Carys had been my everything—my best friend, my almost-something-more, my person. And then she got sick. And I got scared.

It wasn’t just her diagnosis. It was the way she handled it—braver than anyone should have to be at twenty-four. And the way I didn’t handle it. I couldn’t. I was terrified. I watched her get thinner, lose her hair, crack jokes through hospital visits. And the closer we got, the more I felt like I was drowning. So I bailed. I told myself I was giving her space, but I was really giving myself an escape hatch.

The last time we spoke was a voicemail. Her voice was soft, breaking. “I don’t know why you left, but I hope you’re okay,” she’d said. I deleted it halfway through. I couldn’t face it.

But here she was, with a dog and a smile and no demands.

“I’m in town for a few days,” she said, finally ordering a ginger tea just to have something in front of her. “Visiting my cousin. Thought I’d see if you still worked here.”

“How’d you even know I’d be here?”

She shrugged. “Call it a hunch.”

I brought her tea, sat across from her on my break, and for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I had to pretend I was okay. We talked, cautiously at first, like we were afraid of stepping on the cracks. But slowly, the old rhythm returned. The teasing. The way she scrunched her nose when she laughed. The way we could fall into silence and not feel the need to fill it.

The dog—his name was Crumb, because of course it was—snuggled under the table like he’d decided we were his people now.

I finally said what I should’ve said a year ago.

“I was scared, Carys. Not of you. Just… of what I couldn’t fix.”

She nodded. “I know. I was scared too. But I still wanted you there.”

“I should’ve been.”

“Yeah,” she said, and for a second I thought she might get up and leave. But then she reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “But you’re here now.”

Crumb barked again, this time softer, almost like approval.

We spent the rest of the afternoon talking. She told me she was in remission. That she’d adopted Crumb from a shelter upstate during chemo. That she’d started painting again. I told her I’d moved apartments twice, tried therapy, and still hadn’t found the courage to date anyone since her.

Before she left, she stood up, looped Crumb’s leash around her wrist, and smiled.

“I’m not asking for anything,” she said. “I just wanted you to know I forgave you.”

“Carys—”

She turned back. “But if you wanted to walk Crumb with me tomorrow morning, I wouldn’t say no.”

Then she walked away, her hair catching the sunlight, Crumb trotting beside her like a sidekick.

The next morning, I showed up at the park at 9 a.m. She was waiting. And Crumb barked twice like he’d been expecting me all along.

Sometimes, the people we hurt the most are the ones we loved the hardest. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, they let us try again.

If you’ve ever thought about reaching out to someone you lost—do it. You never know what might come back.

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