He turned the mango in his hand until the sugar seemed to stick to his thumbprints. Somewhere between the last tram and the soft-lit apartment he shared with too many unanswered texts, he heard the shrill cry of a gull and thought of wooden piers and carved initials. He could choose the three-week ticket, the uncertain town, the possibility of new weather. Or he could choose the safety of the present, the slow fade of might-have-beens.
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Acha sat already, head bent over a notebook, hair falling across her face. When she looked up, her smile was the same crooked thing he remembered, though there was a new line at the corner of her eye—proof of a year that had not been kind nor generous, but which had kept her real. Acha sat already, head bent over a notebook,