Riya

I didn’t recognize you at first. You were standing by the oranges, turning one slowly, then setting it back with a care I had once tried to teach you and failed. “Riya?” You said my name like it wasn’t something you had to earn anymore. “Hey.” You stayed where you were. That was new. No closing the distance, no filling the air with reasons. Just space, held steady. “I’ve been doing better,” you said. Not careful, not rehearsed. Your hands were still. I remembered when they weren’t—glass tipped over in the sink, your voice rising before either of us understood why. I used to watch your fingers to know what kind of night it would be. “I can see that.” It didn’t feel like giving anything away. A woman passed between us, her cart catching my ankle. I shifted, and for a second something old moved through me—the expectation that you would reach out, take hold, decide the moment for both of us. You didn’t. You let it pass. “I wish I had been like this before.” You said it without looking for a way around it. “I know.” You nodded, like that answer had already been waiting for you somewhere else. We stood there longer than we should have. You glanced at the oranges again, then back at me, as if deciding what to leave untouched. “I’m glad you’re okay,” you said. I believed you. That was the difference. When I turned away, I felt it clearly—not relief, not anger, something quieter. You had become someone I could have stayed for. And I had already learned how to leave.