They’d sat like this before, quietly and observing a moment of nothingness between them that passed without unnecessary words. They were younger, then, less wise and more naïve, less torn, more optimistic. They could see, back then, that this moment could pass, and whatever revelatory blue skies behind he dark clouds could wash away the pain of the moment.

Now, however, the storm was raging, harder than it had, and now her legs stretched all the way to the ground from the ledge on which they perched. His knees bend, and her hair was longer and a shade darker but still blonde, and his was longer and still boring brown, his eyes, her eyes, the exact same blue.

No wrinkles yet, and he still had all his hair, and for God’s sake, they were 28, they weren’t living on Social Security yet, but he could see her 17-year-old self superimposed over the 27-year-old self and he felt older than he ever had, and it wasn’t a feeling he liked.

"Long time no see," she remarked, half sardonically, mouth twisting in a strange was that was largely unattractive but that somehow still drew him to her.

"Ten years," he drawled, because he never knew exactly what to say.

She didn’t look at him; she hadn’t yet, and somehow, still, somehow, she knew it was he, and he couldn’t be surprised at this, not matter how much he wanted to be and no matter how much it troubled him.

"Tell me," she said, and that was all, really, because everything else was implied.

"Got my BA at NYU in Fine Arts. I’m a nationally syndicated cartoonist," and it was all true, and it was what he’d always wanted, back when they’d known each other, back when it was easy.

"Congratulations. I know you always wanted that." Her sentences were so laconic, so careful to never say anything wrong, and her perfection infuriated him sometimes because he wished he could be like her, elegant and complex, never blurting incoherent gibberish or moronic phrases, saying words like ‘quoth’ and quoting famous people with ease and freakish brilliance.

"I did," he whispered, and he wasn’t sure what it meant, because he loved it, loved drawing and loved making people laugh, but he also loved something he’d abandoned out of necessity years ago, and there was a hole in him that he couldn’t just draw over anymore.

Without being prompted, she told him, "I have a Master’s in English from Stanford," and he winced and remembered their last night, when she told him she was leaving and that no, he couldn’t make her stay but yes, she did love him, very much in fact, and that was precisely why she had to leave.

"I’ll break you heart," she told him.

"You just did," he spit, voice coated in venom and high-school drama while his heart filled with a different venom, a pain he couldn’t recognize for what it was until ten years later, when he’d mostly salved the gaping wound that the mere sight of her tore open again.

"Great." And that was that, set and match, without a clear winner, and everything was obscure and there were too many variables, but then, with them, there had always been too many variables, and neither of them really liked math that much.

"I miss you," he blurted, and he was, then, glad for the ability not to measure out his words with teaspoons and tablespoons with the right amount of sugar to keep them from stinging. He hoped, right then, that he’d hurt her, and when she looked at him for the first time, he saw he had, and felt negligible remorse.

"I miss you, too. But we’re adults now, and we’re different, we have different lives on…different coasts, and you’re-we’re-this is it. You have to move on."

Her words lacked their usually saccharine coating, and he blinked, stared at his feet; his shoes were scruffy and old. Hers were new and polished.

"Only me?" He pounced upon the least important part of her declaration.

Taking off one woolen glove, something glinted in the sun; a ring, a silver band with a single, tiny sapphire sat into the middle. He knew, then, suddenly, and his heart broke into smaller pieces.

"I’m engaged." As if it needed verification. And the ring, that was the ring she’d always waxed poetic about, the one he’d intended to buy for her once he was ready.

Apparently, he’d been too slow.

Overwhelmed, he blinked more, many times in rapid succession, rubbing his face. "This is it," he mumbled.

"I’m sorry," and he felt guilty, because it was wrong for him to expect her to be sorry for being happy, and at the same time, he was glad she wad.

"It’s okay," he said.

"Is it?"

With more confidence than he felt, he nodded. "I’ll be okay."

She smiled, more happily than he’d ever seen her, the sun dancing in her eyes and making them appear as liquid sapphires. "Thank you."

"Yeah." He shrugged and desperately beseeched himself not to beg her to give whoever it was the ring and ride away with himself into the sunset.

Her watch beeped and she smiled apologetically. "I have to go." She hugged him, quickly, and was gone before he could move his arms, before it could mean anything. "Bye," and she strolled away, casting no backward glance.

He stood, angrily, angry at himself and at her and at whoever the him who gave her that damn ring was. He kicked the stone wall, and he hurt his foot, and he limped all the way home, not even noticing the pain over the roar of failure in his veins.