Chapter 2：Reunion of Lies
931words
If two years had truly vanished from my life, my best friend would know the truth. We'd been tight since freshman year of college. She was the only one who'd consistently seen Andrew and me together—hell, she witnessed our engagement.
I waited at our usual coffee spot. The interior looked exactly as I remembered—even that tacky sunflower painting hung in the same spot. Strange. After two years, shouldn't something have changed?
"Christie?"
I turned to see Sarah frozen in the doorway, clutching a designer bag I'd never seen before. Her expression was odd—shock mixed with something I couldn't quite identify.
"Oh my God, it really is you!" She rushed over and hugged me, though her embrace felt mechanical. "I can't believe it! Where have you been? Everyone's been searching everywhere!"
"Searching for me?" I pulled her into a seat. "Sarah, what the hell is going on? Everyone's saying I've been gone for two years, but I just went hiking for a day…"
Sarah's eyes darted away briefly. She checked her phone, then met my gaze again. "Christie, you seriously don't remember? You've been missing for two years. We filed reports, organized search parties…"
"What about Andrew? Wasn't he leading the search?"
Sarah hesitated—a beat too long.
"Andrew?" Her brow furrowed. "Honey, I've never seen you with anyone by that name."
"What?" I nearly launched out of my chair. "Sarah, what kind of sick joke is this? Andrew Martin! My fiancé! You helped me pick the damn engagement ring!"
"Christie…" Sarah's voice dropped to that careful tone people use with unpredictable animals. "I think you might need to talk to someone professional."
Her words echoed Jack's from last night, almost verbatim.
"You're all using the same script," I said, studying her face. "Why do you all sound so rehearsed?"
"What script?" Sarah shifted uncomfortably. "I'm just concerned about you…"
Her phone rang. She glanced at it, then declined the call without answering.
"Who's calling?" I asked.
"Telemarketer," she said too quickly.
But I'd glimpsed her screen—no telemarketer ID, just an unmarked number.
"So, Sarah, how's life been treating you?" I asked casually, watching her closely.
"Fine. Work's been crazy." She absently adjusted the watch on her wrist.
A Cartier watch. The same Sarah who used to eat ramen for a week straight when rent was due. Since when could a non-profit social worker afford a five-figure timepiece?
"Sarah," I asked carefully, "when did we last see each other?"
She paused again, eyes flicking away. "Two years ago, right before you vanished. We met at this coffee shop, and you mentioned going to the forest to clear your head."
"I said 'clear my head'? Not 'hiking with Andrew'?"
"Christie, you've always been single." Her voice took on that clinical gentleness again. "Sometimes… people create partners to fill a void. It's actually quite common in psychology…"
Her phone rang again. Same number. She declined it again.
"Sure you don't want to get that? Seems persistent for a telemarketer."
"It's nothing important." Too quick, too dismissive.
I scanned the coffee shop, suddenly noticing everything looked too… pristine. After two years of operation, there should be worn spots on the chairs, scratches on the tables. But everything looked exactly as it had yesterday.
"Sarah, did they renovate this place recently?"
"No, it's always looked like this."
But I distinctly remembered that corner table had a wobbly leg—now rock-solid. And the hairline crack in the window by the door? Completely gone.
"You know," I said slowly, "everything here is identical to how it was before I supposedly 'disappeared.' Even that hideous sunflower painting is hanging at the exact same angle."
Sarah's face tightened. "Maybe… your memory isn't as reliable as you think?"
Her phone rang a third time. Now she looked genuinely anxious.
"Sarah, whoever that is really wants to talk to you."
"I told you, it's just spam calls."
"Since when do telemarketers call the same number three times in five minutes?"
She didn't respond, just stood abruptly. "I think we're done for today. Christie, please consider getting professional help."
"Wait," I grabbed her arm. "You haven't told me anything about your life these past two years."
"Working. Living. The usual." Vague, evasive.
"Are you seeing anyone?"
"No."
"Still in that apartment on Maple?"
"Yes."
Her answers were clipped, devoid of details. Wouldn't normal friends reuniting after two years have endless stories to share?
"Sarah," I locked eyes with her, "do you honestly believe I'm crazy?"
She looked away. "I think you need help."
With that, she hurried out of the café.
I remained seated, watching her practically run down the sidewalk, like someone fleeing a crime scene.
Even stranger—after she left, I realized every other customer was staring at me. When I met their eyes, they all suddenly became fascinated with their coffee cups.
I pulled out my phone and checked my message history with Sarah. The last text was indeed from two years ago, but the content was bizarre:
"See you tomorrow. Remember what we agreed on."
I had absolutely no memory of making any agreement with her.
As confusion swirled through me, my phone pinged with a new message:
"She's lying. You know that, don't you? —A"
A? Andrew?
I scanned the café frantically but saw no familiar face.
As I left the coffee shop, I glanced back. Sarah stood at the corner, phone pressed to her ear. From her tense shoulders and rapid gestures, it was clearly not a casual conversation.
And most tellingly—she was now calling that same number she'd repeatedly declined.
