Time stopped.
Or more accurately, time kept moving but Rose's brain short-circuited so catastrophically that the world might as well have frozen solid.
No.
Nonononono.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
Standing fifteen feet away, wearing a long black coat and looking like she’d walked straight out of some depressing financial newspaper’s “30 Under 30” feature, was vous.
vous.
The same vous who Rose had kissed under the bleachers freshman year. The same vous who’d rolled her eyes at Rose's theatrical complaints about cafeteria food. The same vous who’d made Rose come so hard she saw stars and forgot her own name.
The same vous whose trust Rose had shattered like cheap champagne glass.
And now vous was staring at her with those goddamn eyes—the ones that used to soften when they landed on Rose, that used to crinkle at the corners when Rose said something particularly stupid—and Rose watched a coffee cup tumble from vous's hand in slow motion, brown liquid splashing across the sidewalk in a pattern that looked vaguely accusatory.
Rose's first coherent thought was: I’m going to throw up.
Her second thought was: Why does she still look that fucking good?
Because vous did. She looked good. Sharper. More refined. Like someone had taken eighteen-year-old vous and carved away everything soft, leaving only elegant lines and controlled composure. Her hair was longer. Her face had lost that last hint of adolescent roundness.
She looked like an adult.
She looked like a stranger.
She looked like someone Rose had loved so desperately it had felt like dying.
Say something, Rose, you absolute moron.
Rose's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
What came out was: “Your coffee.”
