He thought it was their first date; she knew it was their anniversary.


She arrived early on purpose. Chose the table with her back to the wall, the one that gave her a full view of the door, the counter, the reflection in the darkened window. Habit never really leaves you; it just changes what it’s watching for. Five years ago, she’d waited for him like this too, heart skittering, imagining futures. Tonight, she waited with something colder, steadier.


When he walked in, she felt it anyway — the small, treacherous tug. Recognition before reason. He looked almost the same, just sharpened at the edges, as if life had filed him down to something more presentable. He scanned the room, searching, hopeful. When his eyes landed on her, his smile bloomed with the uncomplicated relief of a man who believes he is early in a story.

He waved. She lifted her hand, slow, deliberate.


“Sorry if I’m late,” he said as he sat down, breathless in a charming way. “Traffic was— well, you know.”


“I know,” she said.


He laughed, mistaking the weight in her voice for warmth. “You look great,” he added, then corrected himself. “I mean — you always did, but—”


“It’s fine,” she said. “You’re doing well.”


The words pleased him. She could see it. First-date rules flicked through his head: be kind, be light, don’t linger too long on the past. He had rehearsed himself into something careful. She wondered, not for the first time, how thoroughly he had rehearsed forgetting.


They ordered drinks. He chose wine, glancing at her for approval. She let him. Five years ago, he would have remembered she didn’t like red.


“So,” he said, leaning in, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “this feels a bit strange, doesn’t it?”


“Yes,” she agreed. “It does.”


He smiled again, relieved she hadn’t said no. “But good strange. Like… possibility.”


She watched the condensation slide down her glass, tracing a thin, clear line to the table. “Possibility is one word for it.”


He told her about his new job, the fresh start, the way things had finally settled. He talked about moving flats, about decluttering, about how he’d learned a lot “after everything.” He never said her name in those explanations, only vague shapes where she used to be.


She nodded at the right moments. Counted the lies he didn’t realise he was telling.


When he paused, she said, “Do you know what today is?”


He frowned slightly, amused. “Our… second date?” he guessed. “I mean, technically?”


“No,” she said. “It’s our anniversary.”


The word shifted the air. Not dramatically — not yet. Just enough.


“Oh,” he said, blinking. Then, with a quick laugh, “Wow. That’s… I didn’t realise.”


“I know.”


He reached for his glass, missed it slightly. “I swear, I wasn’t trying to be insensitive. It’s just been a long time.”


“Has it?” she asked.


He hesitated. “Feels like it.”


“For you,” she said.


He looked at her more closely now, as if something in the lighting had changed. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”


“Because I wanted to see how this would go.”


His smile faltered. “And?”


“And you did exactly what I expected.”


That unsettled him. He shifted in his seat. “I don’t understand.”


She leaned forward, just enough that he couldn’t look away. “Five years ago today, you told me you hated anniversaries because they felt like pressure. Do you remember that?”


He searched his memory, coming up empty. “I might have said something like that.”


“You said,” she continued, “‘If I ever forget, it’ll be because I don’t want to remember.’”


A chill crept into his expression. “Did I?”


“Yes.”


The wine arrived. He didn’t touch it.


“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable,” she said, gently enough to be convincing. “I just think it’s interesting. You remember us as something unfinished. I remember us as something that ended very precisely.”


He swallowed. “I thought meeting again might help us… fix things.”


She smiled then, thin and sharp. “I didn’t come to fix anything.”


“Then why are you here?”


She considered telling him the truth outright — about the nights she’d replayed conversations until the words wore grooves into her mind, about the moment she’d realised forgetting was a choice he’d made daily. Instead, she said, “Closure.”


He exhaled, relieved. “I get that. I think we both need—”


“I got mine,” she interrupted.


Silence. Heavy now. Earned.


He glanced at his watch, then back at her. “You seem angry.”


“No,” she said. “I’m finished.”


That frightened him more than anger would have.


She stood, reaching into her bag. “I almost forgot,” she added, placing a folded card on the table. “This is for you.”


He picked it up, puzzled, opening it as she watched. Inside was a photograph — old, slightly faded. The two of them, laughing on a park bench, chips balanced between them. The date was handwritten on the back.


“I found it when I was packing,” she said. “I thought you might like to remember what you left behind.”


He looked up, pale. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”


“I know,” she said. “That’s the sinister part.”


She turned away before he could respond, before guilt could masquerade as regret. Outside, the night swallowed her easily. Behind her, he sat alone with the proof of a day he hadn’t known he was standing on — an anniversary he would never forget now, because she had finally decided to give it back to him. 


As she walked away, she felt the familiar urge to look back, to check he was watching, that the moment had landed. She resisted. This wasn’t about witnesses. It was about weight. About setting something down exactly where it belonged. Tomorrow, he would wake with the date echoing faintly in his head, an itch he couldn’t scratch. He would Google anniversaries, scroll old messages, wonder why the unease lingered. Memory, once returned, is a quiet thing. It doesn’t shout. It waits. And it would never let him go.