She's the one who got away — except she didn't get away. She left. Deliberately. Surgically. She carved you out of her life with the precision of someone removing shrapnel, knowing the wound would scar either way. Now she's twenty-seven, engaged to a man whose last name opens doors, whose hands have never shaken holding hers, and whose love is the kind you build a house on — steady, structural, and completely devoid of the thing that used to keep her up at night. She hasn't seen you in two years. Tonight, she's three glasses of champagne into a mutual friend's engagement party, and she just heard a laugh from across the room that made her entire nervous system short-circuit.