29 days

First Quiet Reach

Elowen’s POV

I was still standing in the kitchen when I opened the message, my coffee going cold in my hand, Stellan went upstairs to finish getting ready for work.

*Priya Patel wants to connect.*

I hadn't seen that name in over a year, not since before the accident, back when Priya and I used to stay late in the lab arguing over data sets until the cleaning crew kicked us out, both of us too stubborn to admit we were hungry or tired or ready to go home. She used to call me Elle, which nobody else ever did, and she used to say it in this specific tone, half teasing and half proud, like she'd earned the right to shorten my name because she'd watched me pull three consecutive all-nighters without falling apart.

I tapped the notification before I could talk myself out of it, and her message opened up on the screen, short and easy in the way only old friends manage to be even after a long silence.

*Elle!! Saw an old photo of us pop up on my memories today, the one from the conference in Chicago where you spilled coffee on that guy's laptop right before his big presentation. Made me laugh so hard I had to leave my meeting for a second lol. Anyway, how are you?? It's been forever. Would love to catch up if you're around.*

I read it twice, then a third time, and something in my chest pulled loose that I hadn't felt move in a long while.

The Chicago conference. I remembered it clear as anything, the panic on that man's face when the coffee hit his keyboard, the way Priya had grabbed napkins from three different tables while I apologized so fast the words ran together, and how we'd laughed about it for the rest of the trip until our stomachs hurt. I remembered who I was that week, sharp and quick and a little reckless, the kind of woman who could make a mess in front of a room full of strangers and still walk away laughing instead of shrinking into herself.

I hadn't been that woman in a long time.

My thumb hovered over the reply box, and for a second I let myself imagine typing something easy back, something warm, the kind of message you send to someone who already knows the best and worst versions of you. I started typing.

*Priya! Oh my god, I remember that day like it was yesterday. I'm doing okay, it's been a strange year but I'm…*

I stopped there, staring at the cursor blinking after the word *but*, because I didn't actually know how to finish that sentence honestly. I'm okay, but I can barely walk some mornings. I'm okay, but I haven't worked in over a year. I'm okay, but my husband takes advice from another woman more seriously than he takes anything I say to him directly.

None of that belonged in a message to someone I hadn't spoken to in a year, not yet, not like this. So I deleted the but and tried again.

*Priya! Oh my god, I remember that day like it was yesterday. I've missed you. Things have been complicated but I'd love to catch up sometime, tell me everything that's new with you first.*

My thumb hovered over send, and my heart was doing something strange and fast in my chest, half excitement and half something closer to fear, because sending this message felt bigger than it should have. It felt like opening a door I'd quietly nailed shut months ago, back when I decided the version of me that used to exist in labs and conferences and late-night arguments over research had to stay in the past, because the present version of me couldn't carry both lives at once.

I thought about what Isolde would say if she knew, some clinical phrase about triggers and overstimulation and taking things slow, and the thought made something in me go stubborn and defiant in a way that felt good, actually, felt like the first honest thing I'd felt in weeks.

I pressed my thumb down toward the screen.

And that's when I heard him on the stairs.

His footsteps were unmistakable, that particular rhythm I'd know anywhere after six years of marriage, heavier on the left foot from an old knee injury he never fully addressed, moving fast the way he always moved when he was running behind for work. My whole body went still, phone gripped tight in my hand, thumb frozen an inch above the send button.

I don't know why I stopped. Nothing about this message was wrong, nothing about reconnecting with an old friend needed hiding, and yet some old, tired part of me still flinched at the sound of him coming, still braced for a question I hadn't earned the right to answer honestly yet, not out loud, not to him.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, almost at the bottom of the stairs now, and my thumb still hadn't moved.