Jade and I hadn’t seen each other in three years. Just different cities, the kind of drifting nobody plans for. When she said she’d be passing through, I got weirdly nervous on the drive over.
She was already in our old booth by the window. At first, it was stiff — a little cautious, as if we were both feeling each other out. Then she brought up the time we got a flat tire in the middle of nowhere and ate gas station sushi. We laughed for ten minutes straight.
After that, it was easy. We closed the place down without noticing. As we walked to our cars, she said, “We can’t do three years again.” I agreed, and we both meant it.
I think about that a lot. How some friendships don’t really fade; they just go quiet. And how little it actually takes to bring them back. It only took one old booth, one stupid memory, and two people willing to show up.