2019-11-17 - The more things change...

It still sits in her draft folder, this email from what felt like a hundred years ago. There's no subject, no email address in the 'To:' line. Just a wall of text, words unsent and unspoken. She was going to send it by text, but text had felt so impersonal. A phone call was out of the question. At least with the email, she'd send it and could forget it if he never replied. But she never did send it.

Patrick,

How is Chicago? Are you all settled in? Gray Harbor is still the same as you left it, except for the autumn colors. I took a walk down to the park after work, they haven't taken down the Halloween decorations. It's almost Thanksgiving! Then again, that's just what makes the city so charming in spite of all the weird, right?

Do you think you may come home for Christmas? I heard Thanksgiving was out of the question. You must be very busy. But if you are coming home.. do you think we could talk?

I don't like the way we ended things. I should've at least come to say goodbye. So maybe we could work something out, if you came home for Christmas. Maybe I could come out to visit next summer. Maybe Chicago doesn't have to be your forever. Maybe I could try. Maybe...

Maybe...

She hadn't finished the email. Back then, she put it away with every intention of going back to it, of scrubbing away all the emotion, of putting just enough out there and seeing what he sent back. She couldn't even remember now what tripped her up back then - a misconstrued picture on social media maybe, or some passing mention in the Gazette - it'd been something little, something stupid. Something that was just enough for her to put him squarely in the past, and to never open that email back up again. Something that was enough to at least make sure she never sent this.

But it was still there, sitting in the draft folder. Just like he was still there and now here. And she could say that she hadn't thought about him even for a single day for all these years, but she would just be lying to herself. She could call him ancient history, but she could still feel the goose flesh on her neck where ancient history's breath had been tonight. Anne pushes away her laptop and reaches for her phone. If she texts him now, she could put away her own guilt, her own blame. But she hovers over his contact picture and doesn't press the screen. She just pushes the phone away and makes a frustrated noise through her nose.

They were different people then. They were different people now. Yet, here they were again.

And even with everything that's changed? Quite a lot has stayed the same.