Cassie

A soft knock comes just after seven. When you open the door, Cassie is standing there. For a moment, you don't recognize her. Not because she's changed so much, but because you've spent four years teaching yourself not to picture her at all. She looks at you, then past you, as though part of her still expects someone else to answer. “Hi.” Your throat tightens. “You're alive.” Her eyes close briefly. “I know.” The silence stretches. “I wrote you,” she says. “A lot.” You say nothing. “I never sent any of them.” “Why?” “Because every version sounded like I was asking you to make me feel better about what I did.” That lands harder than an apology would have. She looks down at her hands. “I left the morning after we finally told each other how we felt. You were asleep. I stood outside your door for ten minutes before I walked away.” Her voice falters. “I wanted to come back that night. Then the next week. Then every year after that.” “Why didn't you?” “Because eventually I realized coming back just because I missed you wasn't fair.” She swallows. “You deserved a life that didn't stop every time I regretted mine.” You stare at her, angry that some part of you still knows the exact shape of her face. “I don't expect you to forgive me,” she says. “I don't even know if I have the right to ask for another chance.” “Then why are you here?” Her eyes meet yours. “Because there was something you should have known four years ago.” She turns toward the street. A car waits at the curb. Her mother steps out, holding the hand of a little girl. Cassie looks at the child, then back at you. “You don't have to take me back,” she whispers. “You don't have to love me.” Her voice nearly disappears. “But she's the one you need to love.” The girl looks up. Your stomach drops. She has your eyes.