I barely got it out. “Yes.”
The room went too bright, too loud, like my senses couldn’t decide what to do with reality.
Emily’s eyes were huge. “Do you want me to message him? Should I tell him where you are?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
“The last update was Sunday.”
So I did what I’ve always done: tried to shrink it.
“It might not be him,” I said. “It could be old.”
Emily gave me a look that said, Please don’t lie to yourself.
“Miss Anne,” she said gently, “he updates it every week. The last update was Sunday.”
Sunday.
A few days ago.
Hope and fear tangled so tight I couldn’t separate them.
So he wasn’t reminiscing. He was still looking.
I felt something stir under my ribs—hope and fear tangled so tight I couldn’t separate them.
Emily waited, absolutely still, like if she moved I’d retreat.
Finally, I exhaled. “Okay.”
“Okay as in yes?”
“Yes,” I said, voice shaking. “Message him.”
It’s humiliating how quickly your brain can turn back into a teenager.
Emily nodded like a professional.
“I’ll be careful,” she said. “Public place. Daytime. Boundaries. I’m not getting you abducted, Miss Anne.”
Despite myself, I laughed. It came out shaky and wet.
“Thank you,” I said. “Truly.”
That night, I stood in front of my closet like it was an exam I hadn’t studied for.
It’s humiliating how quickly your brain can turn back into a teenager.
“You are 62. Act like it.”
I held up sweaters. Rejected them. Put them back. Pulled them out again.
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