India hadn’t meant to open the invitation. The gold-embossed envelope had arrived weeks ago, hidden under a stack of unread mail. She told herself it didn’t matter, that revisiting her old college was pointless. But when she finally found it, half-crumpled and covered in coffee stains, her hands trembled.

The reunion.

And Keith might be there.

Keith. Even now, his name struck like a note of music she hadn’t heard in years but still knew by heart. The man she had loved—not just loved, but worshipped. He had been her Adonis, an impossible blend of androgynous beauty and untouchable charm. They had shared a summer—one incandescent, endless summer—before he disappeared.

She told herself it was youthful foolishness, that her adult self should scoff at such nostalgia. Yet she found herself staring in the mirror, wondering if she’d aged gracefully enough, wondering if he’d remember her the way she remembered him.

The weeks before the reunion were a blur of frantic preparation. A crash diet left her irritable and light-headed, but she rationalized it as dedication. She scoured boutique shops for the perfect dress, one that whispered sophistication while screaming “look at me.” The final touch was a makeover that erased every imperfection her 20s had forgiven but her 30s now flaunted.

“You look amazing,” her best friend Nita said as they stood in front of the bathroom mirror on the night of the event.

“I have to,” India replied. “This might be the only chance I get to see him again.”

“India…” Nita hesitated. “What if he’s not who you remember?”

India forced a smile. “He will be.”

The reunion was held in the same hall where they’d once danced under string lights and cheap disco balls. Now it was all polished wood and faux elegance, with catering trays that couldn’t disguise the lukewarm taste of regret. India’s pulse quickened as she entered, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

And then, she saw him.

Keith stood by the bar, but he wasn’t the Keith she remembered. Gone were the ethereal features she had worshipped: the soft golden curls, the flawless complexion, the delicate curve of his lips. In their place was a man weathered by time, his hair streaked with gray, his frame heavier, his eyes duller. He looked ordinary.

Her chest tightened.

“India?” His voice pulled her back.

Keith was smiling, his teeth slightly crooked in a way she didn’t recall. But there was warmth in his expression, the kind that spoke of recognition, not regret. He looked genuinely happy to see her.

“Keith,” she said, her own smile brittle.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” He laughed, and it sounded real. “It’s been, what, fifteen years?”

“Something like that,” she managed.

As they fell into conversation, Keith told her about his life—a career in graphic design, a failed marriage, two kids he adored but rarely saw. He spoke with a vulnerability that caught her off guard, as if he weren’t trying to impress her, only to connect.

But India struggled to listen. She couldn’t stop comparing this man to the memory of the Keith she’d idolized. That memory was pristine, untouchable, while the man before her was flawed and human.

The breaking point came when Keith excused himself to the bathroom.

India wandered to the edge of the room, gripping her champagne flute as the weight of disappointment crushed her chest. Why had she come? To relive a fantasy? To prove something to herself?

“Still hung up on him?” a voice asked.

India turned to find Nita. “What are you doing here?”

“You looked like you needed backup,” Nita said with a shrug. “Also, I’m nosy.”

India laughed bitterly. “He’s not the Keith I remember.”

“Of course he’s not,” Nita said. “Neither are you. But the question is, why does that matter so much? What were you hoping for, India? That he’d sweep you off your feet and everything would magically fall into place?”

India’s throat tightened. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well, you’ve got him right here. Flaws and all. You can walk away if you want, but don’t pretend this is about him. You’re the one stuck in the past.”

When Keith returned, India was still at the edge of the room. He hesitated, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but back in college… I thought you were perfect.”

Keith blinked, surprised. “Perfect? Me? India, I was a mess.”

She smiled despite herself. “Yeah, I can see that now.”

They both laughed, and for the first time that night, India felt the tension ease.

“Listen,” Keith said, his voice soft. “I’m glad you came. You were always… special to me.”

The words hung between them, not quite a declaration, but more than a polite courtesy.

India studied him—the lines on his face, the silver in his hair, the warmth in his eyes. For the first time, she saw him as he was, not as she had idealized him to be. And she realized she had been chasing a ghost, not just of Keith, but of herself.

As they said their goodbyes, India felt lighter. She didn’t know if she and Keith would stay in touch or if their connection had run its course. But as she walked away from the reunion, heels clicking against the pavement, she didn’t feel regret.

Because in seeing Keith for who he truly was, she had begun to see herself the same way—flawed, human, and still worthy of love.

©2024 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys