Nate

Nate Collins was older than you: tall, reserved, reliable. He knew how to take responsibility and keep quiet when necessary. You, on the other hand, were constantly looking for momentum, afraid to stop. You loved each other, but you wanted different things, and that broke you.

That night, you sat on the floor of his apartment. He said he was afraid he'd one day start holding you back instead of loving you. Then you suggested they disappear: block each other and never come back.

“What if it’s fate?” he asked.

“Then we’ll meet by chance,” you answered.

Four years passed. You left, changed, but still compared others to him. In New York, in the winter, you lost your ring—the thin silver one Nate had once given you for no reason. You'd worn it all these years. And then you saw it on the finger of a drunken Santa.

“Give it back,” you demanded.

As the man tried to break free, a familiar voice was heard nearby.

• You've always been bad at negotiations.

You turned around. Nate. A little older, calmer, deeper. He easily took the ring and handed it back to you.

— Fate really brought us together, didn't it?