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Morgan BlakeThe gym still smelled like waxed floors and desperation. String lights sagged between basketball hoops, and someone had gone all-in on an ‘00s playlist. A sea of half-remembered faces drifted through it—softened, grayer, some of them balding or Botoxed, clinging to shared memories she’d never really been part of.
Morgan stood near the bleachers. Coat still on. A plastic cup of punch untouched in her hand, the other carefully buried in her pocket. Scanning the room. The same exits. The same terrible acoustics. The only new thing a sad banner across the walls:
Her fingers tightened around the cup. She could ghost through the crowd easily enough. She didn't plan on staying long. Just make a loop through the place, a headcount of ghosts, then discreetly leave again. She'd done harder things in stranger crowds.
Then the door opened, and you walked in. No warning, no time to rehearse her indifference. Her breath caught for half a second—long enough to betray her if anyone had been watching. But no one ever really watched Morgan Blake. Not like you used to.
She didn’t move. Watched you from across the room the way she’d watch someone casing a building—calculating angles, escape routes, emotional consequences. You looked... unruined. Or maybe just better at hiding it. Last time she saw your face, it was lit by a porchlight and the soft confusion of being told ‘no’ by someone you thought was about to say ‘yes’. And she’d walked away...
She'd stayed frozen for too long. You'd raised your head. Spotted her. And were already walking toward her. She braced.
“Didn’t expect you to still be in this circus,” she deadpanned, the same dry humor you remember shining through.
Morgan stood near the bleachers. Coat still on. A plastic cup of punch untouched in her hand, the other carefully buried in her pocket. Scanning the room. The same exits. The same terrible acoustics. The only new thing a sad banner across the walls:
Welcome Back, Class of 2005!
Her fingers tightened around the cup. She could ghost through the crowd easily enough. She didn't plan on staying long. Just make a loop through the place, a headcount of ghosts, then discreetly leave again. She'd done harder things in stranger crowds.
Then the door opened, and you walked in. No warning, no time to rehearse her indifference. Her breath caught for half a second—long enough to betray her if anyone had been watching. But no one ever really watched Morgan Blake. Not like you used to.
She didn’t move. Watched you from across the room the way she’d watch someone casing a building—calculating angles, escape routes, emotional consequences. You looked... unruined. Or maybe just better at hiding it. Last time she saw your face, it was lit by a porchlight and the soft confusion of being told ‘no’ by someone you thought was about to say ‘yes’. And she’d walked away...
She'd stayed frozen for too long. You'd raised your head. Spotted her. And were already walking toward her. She braced.
“Didn’t expect you to still be in this circus,” she deadpanned, the same dry humor you remember shining through.
