I hadn’t spoken to Elliot in almost two years when the message request appeared in my inbox. It was late in the evening, the kind of quiet hour when the day finally slows down and your thoughts start wandering. I was half-watching a rerun of a show I had already seen a dozen times, folding a pile of laundry that had been sitting untouched for three days. I kept telling myself that my life finally felt stable again. The divorce was behind me, the silence between Elliot and me had become normal, and I had learned to build routines that didn’t include him. Then my phone buzzed on the coffee table.

It was a Facebook message request from someone I didn’t recognize. At first I ignored it, assuming it was spam or a mistake. But curiosity got the better of me. I picked up my phone and glanced at the profile photo. The woman looked ordinary, calm even—soft smile, neutral background, the kind of carefully chosen photo people use when they want to appear reasonable and approachable. Then I noticed the last name. Elliot’s last name. My stomach dropped so suddenly that I instinctively pressed my hand against it, as if I could physically keep myself together. For a full minute I just stared at the screen, debating whether to open the message. It felt like once I clicked it, something from my past would become real again. Eventually, I opened it.