Chapter 22. Unfamiliar Familiarity
Ren didn't remember the first time he saw her again—because it never truly ended.
From the moment she walked into that boardroom, her presence had remained like a pulse in the air. Every hallway she passed through seemed to retain her warmth for a heartbeat longer. Every room she entered gained gravity. And Ren—who had trained himself to disappear—found himself orbiting her without meaning to.
He didn't speak to her. Not unless spoken to. Not unless protocol demanded it.
But he watched.
From the edges. From the shadows. From behind his monitors or through the tinted glass wall of Meeting Room C.
He watched her move—fluid, efficient, intentional.
She had always been like that. Even when they were children.
What gutted him now… was that she hadn't changed.
She still touched the curve of her left ear when thinking—a subtle press of thumb and forefinger as if trying to ground herself in the quiet hum of thought.
She still tapped her pen against her notebook exactly four times before writing.
She still tilted her head slightly when challenged—not in confusion, but in challenge returned.
Ren noticed it all.
It was like watching a symphony of memories wrapped in a new skin. The same music. Just played at a tempo he hadn't heard in seventeen years.
At every morning meeting, he arrived early, sat two seats diagonally from her—not close enough to be obvious, not far enough to be invisible. When she spoke, he kept his eyes on the screen. But when she listened—when she leaned forward, brow furrowed, one hand resting lightly on her chin—he watched her from the corner of his eye.
During project reviews, she would sometimes walk over to his pod. Not often. Just enough to keep his chest in a constant state of tension.
She would ask for clarification. Request a systems report. Or offer a legal observation that required a software team response.
He answered her calmly. Clearly. Never stuttered. Never showed more than professional reserve.
But afterward, when she turned away and he was alone again—he would press a hand to his chest and sit still until the world settled.
One Tuesday, she had a strategy session with the HR lead in the glass conference room directly across from his workstation. Ren had no deliverables due that hour, so he typed random code into a test terminal and watched her through the reflection on his monitor.
She sat upright, speaking slowly, eyes sharp but calm. Her hands moved as she explained something—structured, expressive, and passionate in a way only someone who believed in what they were saying could be.
She laughed once.
It caught him off guard.
The sound was low. Soft. But unmistakable.
He hadn't heard her laugh in seventeen years. And it was exactly the same.
He forgot to breathe.
One of his teammates—Jalen, a new front-end specialist—glanced over. "You okay, Ren?"
Ren blinked hard. "Yeah. Just debugging."
Jalen nodded and turned away.
Ren lowered his head, suddenly exhausted.
Every day she was here was a paradox.
It was healing. And it was heartbreak.
It was proximity. And absence.
She was close enough to touch… but further than she'd ever been.
And she didn't remember him.
He told himself that was a gift. That maybe it spared her something. That her forgetting meant she hadn't carried his weight across all these years like he had carried hers.
But when she stood beside him during a weekly tech-legal sync, shoulder nearly brushing his, and tapped her pen four times before writing down a clause to investigate…
Ren felt seventeen again.
Invisible. Quiet. Hoping lightning might strike a second time.
Once, late in the evening, he passed by her reflection on the glossy elevator doors. She was waiting to go up, a file in her arms and her eyes half-lidded with fatigue.
She rubbed her temple.
Touched her left ear.
Tapped her pen. Once. Twice. Three—four times.
And for a moment—just the span of a breath—Ren closed his eyes.
Because the past was alive again.
And she… was still here.
She didn't remember—but her every gesture told a story he never forgot. What would happen if she did?