The elevator dinged softly.
Same chime. Same stale scent of air-conditioning and paper and someone's forgotten breakfast. I stood still for a second — just breathing — before the doors slid open.
The Lumina office floor looked almost the same.
Soft gray carpeting. A line of cubicles to the right. That weird green indoor plant in the corner that somehow hadn't died after all these years. The walls were repainted, sure, but the bones were the same. I used to walk these halls half-asleep, latte in one hand, half-hearted smile in the other.
Now, I held nothing — just my bag and the low thrum of nerves in my throat.
A few heads turned. Some faces lit up in quiet surprise. Familiar smiles. A few awkward nods. But I didn't stop. Ms. Vargas had told me to head straight to the 10th floor — executive area. I didn't even know if I had a desk yet. Maybe that was symbolic.
I took the stairs instead of the elevator. My heels made a soft echo. The air shifted slightly — colder up here. More sterile. I told myself that was normal.
I turned the corner.
And that's when I saw him.
Elián.
Standing by the pantry. Talking to someone, his face angled in that half-profile I used to know like breath. He was laughing — the quiet kind, polite but distant. His hands were tucked into his pockets, like always. And for a second — just one sharp second — time bent.
It hit like cold water and fire all at once.
Because he hadn't changed much. Still tall, still disarmingly calm. Still dressed like he didn't think anyone was really watching — charcoal button-up, no tie, same quiet magnetism.
He turned.
And saw me.
His body stilled. Just slightly. His eyes found mine, and something unreadable flickered across his face. Not shock. Not joy. Just… something frozen. Like a memory trying to step into the room.
I forgot how to breathe.
A few years ago, I'd have looked away. Pretended. Smiled and made it easy for him.
Now, I just looked back. Steady.
He blinked first.
"Mara," he said.
Not a question. Not a welcome. Just my name — like it meant something still.
"Hi," I replied. Quiet. Simple.
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but someone walked past, called his name. He turned slightly, nodded, and then looked back at me.
There it was again — that pause. That beat between sentences where everything once lived.
"Didn't expect to see you here," he said.
I shrugged lightly. "Same."
He glanced down at the floor. "So… you're back?"
"For now."
His eyes lifted again. "I—"
But then Ms. Vargas rounded the corner. "Mara! There you are. Come on, let's catch up before the welcome meeting."
I gave Elián a small nod. "See you around."
He nodded too, slower. "Yeah."
As I followed Ms. Vargas down the hall, I didn't look back.
But the air had shifted.
Not just because I saw him again — but because I didn't crumble this time. I didn't feel like I was standing in a past life I hadn't finished. I was standing in the present. My shoes. My name. My choice.
Still, behind my ribs, something hummed.
Memories don't need permission to return. They just do.
And love — the kind that never had a name — always leaves a trace.