I don’t even remember the last words exchanged. Was it over im? Was it in person? All I could remember was that the words spilled out of me angrily and suddenly that was it.

More than ten years have passed since we last spoke.

Yesterday, I entered the room and saw her immediately. A short wave of hesitation passed across my face. Then I spotted a friend. Then another. And another. I stepped around others and entered a conversation, almost facing her, but turned to the person to her left. Her body language suggested that she didn’t know anyone. She was new to this crowd. Pity dug at my mind.

While making small talk with the friend, I told myself that I would for the first time in over ten years to talk to her. The last words we spoke must surely have been forgotten. Our emotions left in our immaturity and pettiness so common to college.

I saw her once at La Mar during happy hour when I was waiting for friends for dinner. I had arrived at the edge of happy hour. So she was in a crowd of suits and ties, carefully adorned appropriate attire. I was in my usual tech outfits—hip but not too hip, casual, and city practical. I stared at the pisco sours dotted with the drops of Angostura bitters, breaking the white foam. I don’t think that she ever noticed me gazing at her.

Back in the room, I took my time, letting conversation and free food lead me to conversation. I naturally drifted from group to group. Then when I finally lifted up my head an hour later, I scanned the room. I stepped around the tables, chairs, and standing people, glancing at the faces. Gone. Not present. My chance to break the silence of ten years and acknowledge a friendship slipped away. But really, all I wanted was to acknowledge her. For a moment.