A woman around my age stood there holding a small red box that looked as worn as we did. Her silver-streaked hair caught in the afternoon light.
She was vaguely familiar, but I didn’t recognize her until our gazes locked. My heart stopped, started, then stumbled like it was learning to beat all over again.
She tilted her head slightly and smiled. It wasn’t the bright, carefree smile I remembered from our youth, but this was definitely my high school sweetheart, the first girl I loved. The first girl to break my heart, too.
“Hello, Howard.” Her voice was different, deeper with age, but still unmistakably hers. “I finally found you after two years of searching.”
“You’re back?” I breathed. A question that came from my heart, not my head, as feelings I thought I’d buried years ago awoke inside me. “But…”
But it didn’t make sense. Not after all these years. Suddenly I wasn’t 65 anymore. I was 17, and the memory of the night Kira broke my heart hit me like a physical force.
48 years ago
The gymnasium sparkled with cheap prom decorations and cheaper dreams. Paper streamers hung from the basketball hoops, and the disco ball scattered diamonds across Kira’s blue dress as we swayed on the dance floor.
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