Rain hammered against the cafe window, mirroring the frantic drumming in Amelia's chest. Liam was late. Again. She’d been waiting for twenty minutes, fidgeting with the sugar packets and compulsively straightening the already-perfectly-aligned napkins. He was supposed to be here to discuss the gallery opening, their collaborative project. She kept replaying the memory of the first time they’d met, that same event they were now bickering over. It felt sharp and fractured, like broken glass.
His sudden appearance in the doorway sent a jolt through her. He was smiling, apologetic, and oblivious. "Sorry, got held up," he said, pulling out a chair. Her stomach clenched. It was this casual, nonchalant attitude that always set her off.
"The opening is in two weeks, Liam," she said, her voice tight. "We need to finalize the piece." She remembered the light in the warehouse that day, the way the paint smelled, the music. She remembered *her* part of the project. But Liam seemed to recall something completely different.
His response, a breezy dismissal of her concerns, caused her palms to sweat. She felt a knot forming in her throat, a familiar sensation she tried to swallow down. The disagreement was about the final artistic choices. She described the piece, the intent, the feeling, but he looked at her blankly. "That's not how I remember it," he said, his smile faltering.