the girl from 4 years ago

 i didn’t expect anything when i saw her again.

four years is enough time to outgrow whole identities,

to shed versions of yourself you don’t even remember living in.

and yet the moment she walked in —

i felt that old frequency hum back to life.

same girl.

new woman.

same laugh with that Miami-girl energy,

the Kardashians still her personality trait,

same humour that always matched mine

even when the rest of the world felt off-beat.

but she wasn’t the girl from four years ago.

she was calmer now.

more stable.

more rooted in herself.

like life sharpened her edges,

but maturity softened her timing.

and me?

i wasn’t the boy she remembered either.

i lost a hundred pounds.

i became presence instead of potential.

i walk into a room with the kind of aura

you can’t fake or buy or imitate.

so when we sat next to each other —

sharing cards, sharing tension, sharing silence —

it didn’t feel like reunion.

it felt like recognition.

she kept playing with her hair.

i kept catching her eyes.

and that tiny moment where i looked at her

a second too long?

yeah.

i felt exactly what would’ve happened

if i didn’t look away.

we talked about everything —

dreams, work, the shows she still obsesses over,

how we grew, how we separated from people

still circling the same life loops.

everyone around us

felt exactly the same

as when we left.

except us.

we were the only two in that room

who actually grew up.

and then came the part

that hit different:

the late-night drive,

the car parked,

the windows fogging slightly from the cold,

and us talking deeper than people talk

when they haven’t seen each other in years.

weed burning slow.

her voice softer.

my presence grounded.

no pretending.

no walls.

no old drama.

no leftover tension.

just two older versions of ourselves

finally capable of the conversation

we were too young for back then.

that’s the part that stayed with me.

not the hair playing.

not the eye contact.

not the nostalgia.

not the tension

that was thick enough to feel in my chest.

but the maturity.

the way she sat with herself.

the way i sat with myself.

the way we fit in conversation

like time never touched us

but life definitely did.

it wasn’t about rekindling anything.

it wasn’t about “what if.”

it wasn’t about old wounds or old stories.

it was simply this:

proof that growth is real.

proof that i’m surrounded by people now

who can hold my depth

without breaking.

proof that i’m not the only one

who evolved.

and maybe that’s all this was meant to be —

a reminder that sometimes

the past doesn’t come back to restart…

it comes back to reflect.

and she reflected back something real:

i’m not the same.

she’s not the same.

and damn —

it felt good to meet again

as the people we became.

— Mr. Mak