When I was seven years old, I cried in the middle of the neighborhood

The entire room fell silent.

I’m pretty sure my soul left my body for at least three full seconds.

One of the interviewers looked confused.
— “You two know each other?”

Ethan never took his eyes off me.
“She used to be my neighbor.”

Used to.

The way he said it made twenty years of memories hit me all at once.

The scraped knees.

The ice cream.

The afternoons sitting beside him while he studied.

And that ridiculous little promise I made at seven years old.

My face burned with embarrassment.

I cleared my throat quickly.
“I… uh… was a very dramatic child.”

A few people laughed softly.

But Ethan didn’t.

He looked strangely emotional for a moment before finally sitting down at the head of the table.

The interview somehow continued, although I barely remember answering another question properly.

Every time I looked up, Ethan was watching me with this unreadable expression that made my stomach twist into knots.

When it finally ended, the hiring manager smiled politely.
“Thank you for coming in, Miss Carter. We’ll contact you soon.”

I gathered my résumé so quickly I nearly dropped my purse.

I just wanted to escape.

But right as I reached the door, Ethan spoke again.

“Claire.”

Hearing my name in his voice after fifteen years felt unreal.

I turned slowly.

“Would you stay a moment?”

The rest of the committee exchanged looks before quietly leaving the room one by one.

Then it was just us.

For the first time in fifteen years.

Neither of us spoke immediately.

Ethan leaned back slightly, studying me carefully like he was trying to match the woman in front of him to the stubborn little girl from his memories.

“You really did it,” he said softly.

I blinked.
“Did what?”

“You studied hard.”

Something about that sentence nearly made me cry.

I laughed nervously instead.
“Well… somebody told me to.”

A slow smile appeared on his face again.

God, that smile was dangerous.

“You remembered that?”

I looked down at my hands.
“I remembered everything.”

The room became quiet again.

But not awkward quiet.

The kind of quiet filled with unfinished feelings.

Finally, Ethan stood up and walked toward the window overlooking Manhattan.

“You know,” he said quietly, “after I moved away, I used to wonder about you sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” I teased softly before I could stop myself.

He laughed under his breath.
“Okay. More than sometimes.”

That confession hit harder than I expected.

I swallowed carefully.
“Why did you leave without saying goodbye?”

For the first time since I walked in, genuine sadness crossed his face.

“My grandmother died,” he said quietly. “And honestly… I was barely surviving back then. I was working two jobs, sleeping in my car some nights. I didn’t want you remembering me like that.”

My chest tightened painfully.

All those years, I imagined he had simply forgotten me.

Meanwhile, he had been struggling alone.

“I waited for you,” I admitted quietly.

Ethan looked back at me sharply.

“I know.”

That surprised me.
“You knew?”

A tiny smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Claire, your mother mailed me one of your graduation photos years ago.”

I stared at him.
“She did what?!”

“She wrote on the back: ‘The little girl still talks about you.’”

I covered my face in horror while Ethan laughed for the first time fully.

And honestly?

Hearing him laugh again healed something inside me I didn’t even realize was broken.

Then his expression softened.

“You know what the worst part is?” he asked quietly.

“What?”

“I almost didn’t come into this interview today.”

I looked up.

He stepped closer slowly.
“And if I hadn’t… I might’ve missed you again.”

My heart was beating so hard I thought he could probably hear it.

Then he said the one thing seven-year-old me would’ve exploded over:

“Dinner tonight?”

I tried to act calm.

Tried to act mature.

Tried very hard not to grin like an idiot.

“Are you asking because of my résumé,” I teased, “or because I once publicly announced I was going to marry you?”

Ethan smiled slowly.
“Honestly? Probably both.”

Three years later, on a warm spring evening in Chicago, I stood in a white dress beside the same apartment courtyard where I once cried and demanded to marry my neighbor.

The old neighbors came to the wedding laughing about how I apparently bullied destiny into existence.

My mother cried through the entire ceremony.

And Ethan?

Right before we said our vows, he leaned down and whispered:

“So… I guess we finally talked about it after you grew up.”

This time, when I answered…

I didn’t cry.

I simply smiled and said:

“Told you I was stubborn.”