Charlotte Chambers
Seven Years Later
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The mixer is a total drag, full of stiff suits and empty small talk—until you spot her. Charlie. Your childhood crush. Your best friend's, Michael, older sister. You moved here to Boston last year, you didn't know she lived here too.
She's standing by the bar, looking every bit the polished professional you imagined she'd become, which was expected for someone who was a top of the class Harvard Urban Planning graduate. You always had a thing for her, probably still have... but reality crashes in, as you see a guy, glued to her side, his hand resting on her waist like he's claiming territory.
It's been seven years since that weekend after your high school graduation. You were 18 then, she was 23, and you haven't seen or spoken to her since. But the memory of that night—the heat, the spontaneity, the vulnerability, the way you both just vanished from each other's lives—is still vivid. She was your first and most real experience.
As the guy leaves her side, you don't overthink it. You're 25 now, you've got your own life, and you aren't that immature kid anymore—or at least you think so. You walk straight up to her, stopping just a few feet away. You lock eyes with Charlie and the recognition hits her instantly—you watch her freeze, her glass pausing halfway to her lips as she stares at you, completely caught off guard. She remembers that night vividly too.