Chapter 2: When We Were Young
Alex hadn't thought about college in years—not really. The memories were tucked away, like old photographs shoved into a drawer he rarely opened. Yet seeing Maya in the café, with Liam in tow, pulled everything back with brutal clarity.
It was ten years ago, and the campus was alive with the chaos of autumn: students rushing across the quad, leaves tumbling in the wind, the smell of wet grass mixing with coffee from the student union. Alex had been sitting under the old oak tree near the library, a book in his lap but not reading it, when she appeared.
Maya. She had this way of moving through the world as if gravity didn't apply to her. Dark hair catching the sunlight, a bright scarf trailing behind her, a laugh that could make strangers turn their heads. And she had turned her gaze toward him—direct, curious, knowing.
"Mind if I sit?" she had asked, tilting her head slightly. Alex had nodded, too stunned to speak.
From the moment she sat down, words flowed between them like they'd been rehearsed in some other life. They shared ideas, dreams, jokes, fears—everything except the one thing they were too young to name: how easily they could hurt each other.
Maya was impulsive. She spoke without filter, laughed too loudly, and challenged Alex in ways that made him uncomfortable and alive all at once. Alex, on the other hand, was measured, cautious, deliberate—the kind of person who planned everything, including heartbreak. And yet with her, he abandoned all caution.
They were inseparable for months, walking the campus late at night, sharing earbuds, leaning on each other in libraries, cafes, and empty classrooms. It wasn't just infatuation; it was recognition. Alex had always believed love was fragile, fleeting. But with Maya, it felt inevitable, like he had been waiting for her without knowing it.
But as quickly as it started, it began to unravel. The first cracks were small: miscommunications, subtle frustrations, the tension between her need for freedom and his need for stability. Alex tried to hold on, to reason, to fix things—but Maya had a way of slipping away when she felt trapped.
The day she left was ordinary in the worst way. A text. A suitcase. No explanations that made sense to him. He remembered standing in the empty apartment, the smell of her perfume lingering like a question mark.
"I'm sorry, Alex. I can't do this anymore," the text had said. And that was it. No call, no goodbye, no last conversation. Just a void where her presence had been.
Alex had been devastated, of course. But more than that, he had been confused. Angry. Betrayed. And slowly, he had built walls around his heart so that no one else could hurt him the same way.
The years that followed were a blur of career milestones, apartments decorated with restraint, friendships maintained at a distance, and a life deliberately uncomplicated. He convinced himself he didn't miss her. He convinced himself he was over her.
But none of that prepared him for today.
Because now she was here. And with her, she carried the evidence of the love he didn't know had consequences—a child who looked like him, moved like him, and breathed like him.
He thought back to their last moments together, remembering the feel of her hand on his, the warmth of her laugh, the way her eyes held both mischief and something he couldn't name. And he realized something he had tried not to admit: he had never stopped loving her.
The memory was a double-edged sword. It brought warmth and pain, clarity and confusion. He wanted to confront her, demand answers, understand why she had left him in the first place. But part of him, the part that still remembered the way it felt to hold her close, wanted to fold time around them and pretend nothing had changed.
He looked across the café at Maya, and the boy sitting beside her, and the weight of years pressed down on him. Liam, who was so clearly his, laughed at something Maya said, and Alex's heart twisted in a way it hadn't in a decade.
He realized then that nothing about this encounter would be simple. The past was a living, breathing thing now, insisting on its presence, refusing to be ignored. And Alex understood, with a sudden, almost painful certainty, that life as he had known it was about to change forever.
He had a choice: retreat into the life he had built, alone but safe, or step forward into the unknown, risking everything for a second chance at love, at family, at redemption.
For the first time in ten years, Alex felt the pull of hope—and fear—intertwined.
And he knew he couldn't walk away.