A chill snaked up Leo's spine as he watched Maya, his Maya, across the crowded coffee shop. She was laughing, her head thrown back, a cascade of dark hair falling down her shoulders. He’d recognized her instantly, even after all this time, but when he’d approached her, she’d stared at him with polite confusion. “I’m sorry,” she'd said, her brow furrowing slightly, “I don’t think we’ve met.” His stomach felt like he’d swallowed a rock. He excused himself, abruptly. Now, he sat tucked away in a corner, nursing a lukewarm latte, a sense of something…missing, tugging at him.
His fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against the table. He traced the rim of his cup, his gaze flickering back to Maya. He remembered the treehouse they’d built, the secret language they’d invented, the countless afternoons spent chasing fireflies in her backyard. None of it existed in her memory. He felt like he was hovering just outside a vibrant, colorful world, unable to cross the threshold.
He considered going back, trying again. Perhaps she had a bad memory. But the fear of her blank stare, the polite denial of their shared history, held him captive. He finished his coffee in a single gulp, the bitter taste mirroring the hollowness inside him.