You realise you probably gave him the shock of his life when you called him this morning and asked him to grab coffee.
You are terrified of the chance that it was not a shock at all.
You are terrified that he can see right through you.
He sits in front of you, the big hands you used to love to doodle on wrapped around a mug of extra-hot black coffee with three spoonfuls of sugar, just the way he likes it. It startles you that you remembered his order, because you haven't gotten coffee with Lucas Friar for years, but stubborn details and memories surface like they were apples for bobbing, and you are drowning.
You remember he likes his coffee black, extra-hot, and with three spoonfuls of sugar. You remember he can't have a single bite of blueberry pie without a glass of ice-cold milk, and he triple knots his shoelaces because, "Maya, you can never be too careful". You remember he's stupidly insecure about the tiny, nearly invisible scar on his chin from falling off his bike in the third grade — oh, and he's ticklish around the ribs.
How could you have forgotten?
You stare at his hands (because his face is too much, it says too much) and you remember the way he used to trace infinities on the palm of your hand and you had both known that it was a promise (a promise you didn't keep).
You force yourself to look him in the eye because you also remember that you are a grown woman.
His green eyes are equal parts hopeful and sad, burning into you like the winter sun. You are terrified that you cannot give him what he wants, what he wants so badly he agreed to meet you even though, years ago (it felt like yesterday, it felt like now) you smashed his heart like it was cake.
With your thoughts are heavy with polaroid memories, with your hands shaking so badly you are afraid you'll never be able to hold a paintbrush steady again, you promptly realise you have made a mistake. You should not have called him, you should not have come, you should go.
You get up to leave and you tell him so with the taste of something metallic and mean on your lips.
"Maya" is all he says. He meant to say it sternly, you can tell. He meant it as a warning — do not leave me again, not this time, not now, sit down. But it doesn't work, because your name breaks and cracks as it leaves his lips, his voice like one last tired squeak before death. Your name has broken his kind, once strong voice.
How will you ever forgive yourself?