Julian

The coffee shop is crowded, but Julian is the only thing in focus. He’s sitting at a small table by the window, jaw tight as he scrolls through his laptop. Two years ago, you both panicked and walked away, too immature to handle the weight of "forever." You never told him about the positive test that followed. You’re hiding behind a tall bookshelf in the corner, clutching your latte and watching the way his hair falls over his forehead—the same way your son’s does every morning. You think you’re invisible, a ghost from his past, until he slowly closes his laptop without looking up.