The Street That No Longer Knows Me

I turned the corner slower than I meant to, and the past struck with the force of something physical.

For a moment, I wasn’t alone.

I saw us as we had been—shoulder to shoulder at the metal tables outside the pizza place, laughter rising above traffic and music leaking from the bar next door. I saw paper boats of fries, cheap beer sweating in plastic cups, coffee steaming in winter air. The street had once pulsed with festival booths and food stalls. I could almost taste cinnamon sugar from fresh churros, feel the grit of salt from overstuffed nachos on my fingers.

My eyes burned.

I forced a breath into my lungs and dragged myself back to the present. Main Street now smelled like damp pavement and January cold. The air had that metallic, waterlogged bite that seeps through gloves and settles into bone. I hunched into my coat and moved forward, boots grinding into grey slush.

That club-looking building on the corner—hadn’t it been a tavern once? Dim lights, sticky floors, a jukebox that played the same three songs on repeat?

I was studying the ice-crusted sidewalk when someone tapped my shoulder.

“Hey—sorry, but…do you remember me?”

The voice was cautious, almost hopeful.

I blinked and squinted past the knit hat tugged low and the scarf drawn high. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A softness to her cheeks that winter couldn’t erase.

“Brittany?”

The name left my mouth in disbelief. We’d met at college a decade ago, three hours from here. She’d grown up four hours north of campus. We weren’t supposed to cross paths in this city. Not now.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

She gave a half-shrug. “You know how it goes. Work. Life.”

That vague tone adults use when they don’t want to unpack anything real.

“How’ve you been?” I asked.

She shifted her weight. “Fine. Just…moving through it.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I get that.”

There was a time when seeing her would have altered my gravity. She’d once made the world feel steadier, made risks seem survivable. Standing here now, I felt…nothing. Or maybe something sharper—impatience. I wasn’t supposed to be back here. Not after what had happened. Not after everything had unraveled.

“And you?” she asked, watching me too carefully. She used to read me like a headline.

“I’m good,” I said, smiling with practiced brightness. “I’m getting married. We both have decent jobs. Well—decent for this economy.” I added a small laugh, the kind people expect.

“That’s great.” She smiled, but it faltered—barely perceptible, but I saw it.

“I’d love to talk more,” I continued, already retreating inside myself, “but I’m meeting friends.”

The lie slipped out smoothly. I wasn’t meeting anyone. I was here on unfinished business—paperwork, signatures, the bureaucratic remains of a mess I’d tried to leave behind.

“Oh.” She pulled her phone from her pocket. “Can I get your number?”

For a split second, I considered refusing. Clean cuts are cleaner.

“Sure.”

I took her phone and typed in the number I’d had in college—the one I abandoned a year after graduation when I decided I could shed old versions of myself by changing area codes. I hit save and handed it back, my smile stiff as porcelain.

“We should get coffee sometime,” she said. “Catch up properly.”

“Definitely. I’ve got a couple days off each week. Just text me.”

I dodged the hug she moved in for, exaggerating a shiver. “It’s freezing,” I said, stepping back. “I should run.”

“Right,” she said, still studying me.

“Looking forward to it!” I called over my shoulder, already walking away.

The slush swallowed the sound of my footsteps as I headed toward the government building a few blocks down. I only needed to collect what I’d left behind during the chaos—the documents, the personal items that proved I had once belonged to this city. After that, I’d take a different route back to my car.

I wouldn’t pass the tavern-that-wasn’t-a-tavern again. I wouldn’t risk another ghost tapping my shoulder.

As I walked, the street felt narrower than it used to. Or maybe I’d just grown used to bigger spaces. Memory has a way of inflating rooms, brightening colors, sweetening tastes. Reality is colder. Wet. Practical.

Ten years ago, this street had been a launchpad. We believed we were beginning something limitless. We didn’t understand that some places are not beginnings—they’re incubators. Temporary shelters before the real storms.

The wind cut across my face, sharp and cleansing.

I didn’t look back.

Some cities are meant to hold your youth and nothing else. You visit them once more to retrieve what you forgot—then you leave them to the snow, to the ghosts, to the people still circling the same blocks.

And this time, I intended not to return.