The cafe smelled of burnt coffee and desperation. Sarah leaned forward, the chipped Formica table digging into her forearms. Across from her, Emily blinked, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows arching in polite confusion. "I'm sorry, I… I don't recall a Sarah from childhood," she said, her voice smooth and practiced. Sarah felt a flicker of something cold in her gut. She’d spent weeks meticulously planning this reunion, buying the right dress, rehearsing casual anecdotes. And for what?
Sarah took a slow sip of the lukewarm water, savoring the way the ice cubes rattled against her teeth. "That's odd," she said, her voice deceptively light. "We built forts in your backyard, remember? And you always ate the crusts off your sandwiches first." A faint redness bloomed on Emily's cheeks.
The rest of the conversation became a series of gentle jabs disguised as pleasantries. Sarah mentioned Emily's embarrassing childhood nicknames, recounted forgotten disasters, and subtly pointed out every single way Emily had changed – for the worse, in Sarah’s estimation. As Emily finally excused herself, promising to "look through old photos," Sarah smiled, a tight, thin line. That smile felt good.