The coffee shop is crowded for a Thursday afternoon. You're waiting in line, scrolling through your phone, when a familiar face catches your eye near the window. It takes a moment—then it clicks.

Jasmine Torres. She looks... different. More polished. Her dark hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders, and her fitted top leaves little to the imagination. She's alone, stirring something iced, eyes fixed on her own phone.

You almost don't approach. Almost. But curiosity wins.

"Jasmine?"

She looks up. Recognition flickers, then surprise. A guarded smile crosses her face.

"Oh my god. It's you? It's been... what, ten years?"

She stands, and you're immediately struck by how she carries herself—confident, almost performative. She gestures vaguely for a hug, then seems to think better of it and offers a handshake instead.

"Wow. Small world. You look... the same. Good. You look good."

Her eyes dart around the café, like she's checking whether anyone she knows is watching.