Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXYWMEV6PDTP70AD0JM79W

The bass-heavy thrum of some electronic track rattled the bottles behind the bar as Rory shouldered through the Friday night crowd at The Raven's Nest. She'd come down for a quick drink before collapsing into bed, her legs aching from twelve hours of weaving through London traffic on Eva's ancient bicycle, delivering takeaway to people who never looked her in the eye. She claimed her usual spot at the far end of the counter where the brass rail had worn smooth from decades of elbows. Silas caught her eye from across the bar, already reaching for the whisky before she'd opened her mouth. "Rough day?" "They're all rough." She pulled off her helmet, ran fingers through sweat-dampened hair. "But at least the tips were decent." He set the glass in front of her with that economical movement he had, nothing wasted. The signet ring on his right hand caught the amber light from the hanging fixtures. "Woman at table six keeps looking over here," he said quietly. Rory's hand froze halfway to the glass. Something in his tone made the hair on her neck stand up. "Blonde. Early twenties. Been nursing a gin and tonic for the last hour." Rory turned slowly on her stool. The crowd shifted, and through the gap she saw her. Megan Davies sat alone at a corner table, her champagne-blonde hair cut in one of those sharp bobs that cost more than Rory made in a week. She wore a cream blazer over a silk blouse, the kind of outfit that belonged in a boardroom, not a Soho bar that smelled like old wood and spilled lager. Their eyes met across the crowd. Megan's face shifted through surprise, recognition, something else Rory couldn't quite parse. Then she raised her hand in a small wave. "Fuck." Rory picked up her whisky and drained it. "Friend of yours?" "Was. Long time ago." She set the glass down harder than intended. "Cardiff." Megan stood, smoothing her skirt. She navigated the crowd with the same careful precision she'd used walking home from pubs twelve years ago, counting her steps, monitoring her posture, always aware of who was watching. "Rory Carter." Megan stopped a careful distance away, like they were acquaintances bumping into each other at a supermarket rather than best friends who'd once shared everything from clothes to secrets to boys. "Jesus. I didn't know you were in London." "Yeah, well." Rory gestured at the bar, at herself, at the whole mess of her life. "Here I am." "You look—" Megan caught herself. "Like I've been run over? Cheers." Rory signalled to Silas for another. "You look like you're about to prosecute someone for insider trading." A flicker of something crossed Megan's face. Pain, maybe. Or irritation. "Solicitor, actually. Corporate law." She set her bag on the bar, a designer thing with subtle logos Rory vaguely recognized from shop windows she'd never entered. "Clifford Chance. Made junior partner last month." "Congratulations." The word tasted like copper. Silas placed the second whisky in front of Rory and gave her a look that said he was watching, that he'd step in if needed. She gave him the smallest shake of her head. "Can I—" Megan gestured at the empty stool beside her. Rory shrugged. Megan sat, arranged herself with that same careful precision. Up close, Rory could see the makeup, expertly applied to hide the shadows under her eyes. The manicured nails. The tennis bracelet at her wrist that caught the light when she moved. "So," Megan said. "Delivery driver?" "Bike courier. Restaurant called the Golden Empress. The owner's decent, pays me cash, doesn't ask questions." "Right." Megan twisted the bracelet around her wrist. "That's... good." The silence stretched between them, filled with years and distance and all the things they weren't saying. Someone fed the jukebox and Bowie started singing about changes, which felt obscenely on the nose. "Remember when we said we'd take over London together?" Megan's laugh came out brittle. "Get a flat in Camden, go to all the clubs, make our mark on the world." "I remember you said that. I was going to write." Rory traced a finger through the condensation on her glass. "Going to be the next great something-or-other. Probably would've starved in a garret being all tragic and artistic." "You were brilliant, though. That short story you wrote, the one about the girl who collected other people's memories? The lecturer said it was the best thing she'd read in twenty years." "Yeah, well. Turns out being brilliant at twenty doesn't mean shit when you're twenty-five and hiding from your ex in a flat above a bar." Megan's head snapped up. "Evan?" "Who else?" "Christ, Rory." Megan's hand moved toward her, then stopped, hovering in the space between them. "I didn't know. I would have—" "What? Sent a card?" The words landed like a slap. Megan withdrew her hand, wrapped it around her abandoned gin and tonic instead. "That's not fair." "Isn't it?" Rory turned to face her fully. "You got into LSE, remember? Full scholarship, everything you'd worked for. And you just... vanished. Changed your number, your email. I tried to find you for months, Meg. Months." "I know." Megan's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I know, and I'm sorry. I just—I couldn't bring Cardiff with me. Any of it." "Including me." "Especially you." Megan met her eyes, and there it was, the weight they'd been circling around. "Because you knew me. The real me. The girl whose dad drank himself unconscious every Friday, whose mum pretended everything was fine while he broke furniture and promises. You knew I shoplifted that blazer for my interview, that I'd practised my accent for hours to sound less Valley, less poor, less everything I actually was." Her fingers tightened around the glass. "You knew all my ugly parts, and I couldn't—I needed to be someone else. Someone clean. Someone who'd always been headed for places like Clifford Chance, who'd never nicked eyeliner from Boots or snogged Jamie Morrison behind the cricket pavilion just to feel something other than afraid." Rory stared at her old friend's carefully constructed face, this stranger wearing Megan's features. "So you erased yourself." "I built myself. There's a difference." But Megan's voice wavered on the last word. "Is there?" Rory picked up her whisky, didn't drink it. "Because from where I'm sitting, you just swapped one performance for another. At least when we were seventeen, you knew who you were pretending for." Megan flinched. Good. Let her feel something other than satisfied with her partner-track position and her expensive haircut. "And what about you?" Megan's voice gained an edge. "Delivering Chinese food, living in some grotty flat, running away from your ex instead of pressing charges like your barrister father could've helped you do. Is that better? Is that more authentic?" The whisky in Rory's hand trembled. "At least I'm not pretending to be something I'm not." "Aren't you?" Megan leaned closer. "Where's the girl who was going to write novels? Who had opinions about everything and wasn't afraid to argue with professors twice her age? You think I'm the only one who changed?"