***not a poem!!

“Emily!”

I look up from my phone and catch the tail end of the barista placing my coffee on the counter before hurrying to make the next customer’s drink. My bag slips from my shoulders as I stand and I let it, setting it on the worn leather couch without bothering to worry whether someone will run away with it. The shop is nearly empty, with the exception of two teenage girls giggling quietly over their frothy drinks at a table in the corner, an elderly man sipping on his mug while silently scanning the newspaper in front of him, and a man waiting in a line of one–himself–to make his order.

I weave around the empty wooden tables to reach the counter and pick up my drink–an iced americano in a tall, cold-to-the-touch glass.

“Emily?” an unfamiliar voice says.

My head turns in the direction of the sound, to the lone man standing in front of the register. Black hair, which had clearly been styled neatly at the start of the day but was now showing signs of being tousled to a point beyond saving; round, brown eyes framed by lashes that curved naturally, delicately, upward; cheekbones and a nose bridge dotted with a smattering of faint freckles that looked as if they’d been painted on with a flick of a brush; a chin with a tiny, faded, scar just off-center to the left that she’d made herself; and lips, parted in shock or amazement or disbelief or a combination of all three after seeing her.

And together… “Noah?” I say, the word tumbling freely off my tongue, as if it had been waiting all this time, all these long years, to finally be released.

The memories rush in.

Tiny, little Noah, with constant teary eyes and wobbly chin, doing his best to blink back tears that were already pouring down his cheeks. Easily excitable Noah, who expressed his joy by clapping his hands and hopping in a circle with glee. Annoying, mean Noah with fingers that hurt when he pinched my arm but a laugh that I could place from across the playground. Shy, awkward Noah who suddenly wouldn’t look me in the eye unless I clapped my palms to his cheeks and forced him to look my way. Quiet, careful Noah who trembled the first time we secretly held hands in the alley behind my house—

And that was where the memories stopped.

It’s as if he snaps out of the same reverie I just watched play through my mind. The new Noah, the Noah I know yet don’t know at all, smiles tentatively. His hand lifts and waves, awkwardly.

“...Hi.”

Something warm and familiar blooms in my chest.

“Hi, Noah.”