Sarah was standing near a large, splattered canvas, looking at it, but not seeing it. She was with a friend I vaguely recognized, and she looked diminished. The vibrant, demanding energy she'd always carried was muted. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, and even from across the room, I could see a tired tension around her eyes. The experiences hadn't filled her; they'd sanded her down. She was staring into her wine glass as if it held the answers.
Our eyes met.
Hers widened—a jolt of pure, electric recognition flashing through them, followed immediately by a flood of confusion, hope, and sheer panic. She whispered something to her friend, who glanced over at me with a judgmental frown. Sarah smoothed her dress, a little too dressy for the venue, and started walking toward me.
There was no avoiding it without causing a scene, and I had no desire to flee. My peace was portable now.
She stopped a few feet away, her eyes drinking me in. I knew what she saw: a man standing easily, his face relaxed, his eyes clear. I had gained a little muscle from running, lost the subtle, constant stress line between my brows. I looked simply like I was okay.
"Hi," she said. Her voice was softer than I remembered. "Wow. You look really good."
"Hello, Sarah," I said, a polite, neutral tone—the tone you'd use with a former colleague you hadn't seen in years.
She flinched, just barely, at the coolness. She took a half-step closer. "Can we talk? For just a minute? I've been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of therapy, actually." She said the last part like it was a credential, a badge of work done.
I didn't move. "Sure."
She took a shaky breath, her words tumbling out in a rehearsed rush: "I was an idiot. What I asked for was monstrous. I see that now. I was scared and insecure, and I externalized it in the most toxic way possible. I treated you like an option, and you were never that. You were my choice. I just didn't know how to know it."