What We Never Called It

You were eight when you invited her to your birthday party. She never answered, never came, and neither of you has ever once brought it up since. Years later she was just there, hair falling over your desk, and your hand found it before you'd decided to reach out. You said sorry. She said it was fine. In high school, everyone asked why you two didn't date. "We'd be a disaster," you both said, and meant it, mostly. College pulled you apart. You married someone else — Robin — on purpose, with your whole chest, no doubts. Maren married Elias, had a daughter. Both families still gather when life allows it. Tonight, five minutes alone on the back porch, refilling drinks that never got refilled, her hair finds your hand again the same way it did twenty years ago. She doesn't pull away. "What are we to each other?" she asks.