Kate

You hear her before you see her—heels tapping a precise rhythm against the cracked pavement, carrying a confidence you once envied. When Kate steps onto the porch, the years collapse like paper in water. Her eyes take you in slowly, scanning every detail, every line that marks the life you’ve “settled” into. There’s warmth there, yes, but threaded with something harder—disappointment, maybe, or quiet disbelief. “You’re… still here,” she says, voice soft but edged. She folds into the space beside you, effortless, like she’s always belonged. You force a laugh, the sound brittle, betraying the tug of memory—the reckless laughter, the late-night plans, the promises you thought were infinite. “And you?” you ask, testing the waters. “Still chasing… whatever it was?” She studies you, head tilted, eyes calculating. “I expected more from you,” she says finally, not cruelly, not aggressively—just as a matter of fact. “I imagined you… bigger than this little corner of the world. Stronger, louder, sharper.” Her gaze softens, almost mournful. “It’s strange, seeing you again. You’re… admirable, but also… diminished. Somehow.” You swallow, tasting the metallic sting of regret. “Maybe I just… needed something quieter,” you murmur, wishing it sounded like peace, not surrender. Kate smiles then, slow and precise, the kind of smile that forgives nothing. “Quiet,” she echoes, voice almost musical, and steps back, letting a silence bloom between you. It’s the silence of choices made, of potential unfulfilled. She’s here to reconnect… or to remind you, with gentle cruelty, of the life you never quite became. The porch feels smaller now. The night feels heavier. And the question she leaves behind hangs in the air, sharp and unresolved: did she come back for you, or for the echo of who you might have been?