The same cafeteria where Mark and I had shared hundreds of lunches over the years.
The same corner table where we’d once celebrated his promotion.
The same window where we’d watched a snowstorm blanket the city one winter afternoon.
Memory is strange that way.
Places become containers for moments.
Even after the people change, the memories remain.
I wrapped my hands around a cup of coffee and stared out the window.
The truth was, seeing Mark hadn’t reopened old wounds.
Not exactly.
Instead, it revealed something unexpected.
I wasn’t angry anymore.
For months after the divorce, I carried a quiet resentment.
Not because of anything he had done.
But because he represented a future I no longer had.
The life we planned together.
The dreams that never materialized.
The certainty that disappeared.
Seeing him now, however, I realized something important.
He wasn’t living the future we imagined either.
He had lost it too.
