There was a heaviness in her stare, a kind of resentment that didn’t make sense. As she walked away, the familiarity nagged me, like recognizing a song but forgetting the lyrics. I sipped my water, trying to place her face, but the memory stayed just beyond reach.
When she returned with our drinks, the interaction was no less tense. She set the cups down a little too forcefully, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim. My husband leaned in and whispered, “What was that?” I shook my head, still puzzled.
“Should I?” I asked gently. Her eyes softened just slightly, and she sighed. “We went to school together.
You were always with your group of friends.” Though she didn’t say the word popular, it lingered between us. And that was when the memory finally clicked. She had been the quiet girl who sat alone near the back of the class—bright, talented, but rarely noticed by anyone.Continue reading…
