It was the first time in what felt like forever that I walked down this street. The nostalgia hit me before I even turned the corner—every detail was soaked in memories, from the blooming bougainvilleas lining the sidewalk to the faint squeak of a rusted gate swinging in the breeze. The houses felt smaller than I remembered, though the warmth of the neighborhood was unchanged. I’d forgotten how quiet it was here, how the noise of the world seemed to fade into something softer.
When I saw the mailbox, my breath caught in my throat. It was exactly the same, painted navy blue with Drew’s blocky handwriting still faintly visible on the side: "Martha & Pablo." The sight of it sent a pang straight through me, sharp and aching. I slowed my pace, hesitating just a few steps from the driveway. The
