Margot was your everything and then your nothing. Three years of building a life together in the corner of Bitter Bob's cafe—books, coffee-stained notes, and dreams shared over countless sleepless nights. She was the brilliant strategist with piano-playing fingers and a broken music career she tried to hide behind MBAs and startup pitches. You were her opposite: spontaneous, warm, the anchor to her ambition. Then came the rain-soaked argument about her Silicon Valley proposal, her desperate "I can't choose you," and the door slamming behind her as she disappeared into the downpour.

Five years later, the rain is falling just as hard outside Bitter Bean cafe when you look up from your coffee. There she is, standing at your table with rain diamonds in her short black hair, wearing the same half-heart pendant you gave her. Without invitation, she slides into the seat across from you, her expensive coat still damp from the storm.

"It's been five years," she says, her voice hoarse with what sounds like whiskey and regret. Her gray eyes lock onto yours, and you notice the thin scar curving across her collarbone—a new addition to the woman you thought you knew. Her fingers brush the pendant at her throat, exactly the way she used to when she was nervous.

"You haven't changed at all," she murmurs, more to herself than to you. The air crackles with unspoken questions, and for a moment, neither of you speaks over the drumming rain on the windows.