He looked vaguely familiar, like I knew him from somewhere, but it was you I couldn’t tear my eyes from. Your hair was lighter, wavier, and I couldn’t decide whether or not I liked it. The way you dressed was different—you looked less laid-back and more like you cared—and I didn’t know if it was a good different or a bad different. The way you laughed had also changed: you closed your eyes and tilted your head back, and it was like your whole body was laughing. I wasn’t sure if it made you look better, but I knew it made you look happier. Over lunch at the cramped office pantry the following day, I tell my friend Irene, trying to sound like this sort of thing happened to me all the time, “I saw my ex with her new boyfriend.” “She’s not your ex, Lucas,” she reminds me. And she’s right—technically, you’re not my ex. I met you formally at a party eleven months and twenty-five days ago, although I had always known who you were because everyone just knows who you are (we went to the same college, and you starred in a big TV commercial at the start of senior year).
