Aisle Seven

I ran into Makena in aisle seven at Trader Joe’s, which felt like the least romantic place on earth to have your entire nervous system reboot.

Trader Joe’s is designed to be harmless. Everything is rounded. The signs are handwritten. The employees smile like they’ve never had a complicated thought in their lives. Even the fruit looks like it’s been coached. The whole store is a performance of ease, like if you buy the right frozen food and the right little bouquet, your life will start to behave, it’s like the phrase “new year, new me.”

I like Trader Joe’s for that exact reason.

It’s one of the only places where I can walk around and pretend my brain isn’t always running. Where I can hold a basket and believe, for a second, that the only thing I need to solve is whether I want spicy or mild salsa.

That day I was there for no real reason. Or maybe I was there for the most real reason. I was tired of being inside my own head, so I went somewhere that smelled like citrus and freezer air.

I had Chobani in my basket (my favorite food)— something I always buy when I’m trying to become the version of myself who has it together. And tulips I bought for no one, because I have this habit of wanting proof that I’m still capable of softness.

I turned into aisle seven without thinking. I don’t even remember what aisle seven is supposed to be. Pasta? Cereal? The middle aisles are always a blur. Trader Joe’s is like that: you go in for one thing and come out with twelve, including some seasonal snack you didn’t know existed. It’s the closest thing to time travel adults are allowed.

Aisle seven was crowded. People were reaching over each other. A cart wheel squeaked like it was protesting existence. Somewhere in the store a child was crying in a pitch that made me think of emergency alarms.

And I remember noticing, stupidly, that the overhead lights made everything look too honest. Like they were trying to expose everyone.

The pores on people’s faces. The bruises under their eyes. The little ways they held themselves like they were bracing.

I was staring at the oranges in a pyramid display because I always do that when I’m overwhelmed— pick one small, ridiculous object and fixate on it. Oranges are perfect, in a way that feels suspicious. They’re bright, identical, sealed. You can’t see what’s inside them until you break them open.

I was thinking about that— about how you can’t tell if something is sweet until you ruin the skin— when someone said my name.

Unsure.

Just like a question that’s not supposed to be asked.

“riane?”

The sound of my name did something strange. It didn’t feel like a word. It felt like a hand reaching backward in time.

I turned.

And there she was— makena— standing two feet away with a bag of oranges.

Her hair was shorter than I remembered. Her face looked sharper, more grown. She wore a black hoodie, like the black balenciaga that was mine, the kind that should’ve made her disappear into the crowd, but she didn’t disappear. Makena never disappeared.

For a second, I forgot how to breathe. I forgot the list of things I’d been stressed about that morning. I forgot what year it was.

All I could see was her.

And the worst part was that my body recognized her before my mind did.

My head started doing something ridiculous like it thought we were about to kiss. Like it thought the last time I saw her wasn’t the last time.

Makena looked at me the same way she used to—steady, like she was already three thoughts ahead. Her expression wasn’t exactly happy. It wasn't exactly sad either. It was something in-between, like she’d been holding her breath for a long time and didn’t know whether she was allowed to let it go.

“Hi,” she said.

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Then, finally: “Hi.”

It sounded smaller than I wanted it to. Like I was thirteen again, practicing my voice in a mirror. Like I was still the kind of girl who didn’t;t know what to do with a girl like her.

The moment stretched.

Someone reached between us for a jar of peanut butter. A cart bumped my ankle. A bell rang near the registers. Trader Joe’s.

But my brain left the building.

Because there are some people who don’t just belong to your past.

They belong to the part of you that got built while they were there.

And when you see them again, you don’t just remember them.

You remember yourself.

And standing there in aisle seven, with tulips in my basket and makena’s face in front of me, I realized something I hadn’t admitted in a long time:

Makena wasn’t a person I used to date.

Makena was a person who rearranged my entire understanding of what love could be.

Before her, love was hypothetical. Like something you watched on screens. Like something adults had. Something straight girls had. Something that happened in movies and not in my actual body.

Then she happened, and suddenly it was physical. Real.

The first time she held my hand, it wasn’t even romantic. We were sitting on the bleachers after practice, legs swinging over empty air, and she just reached for me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her fingers slid between mine.

And my entire nervous system short-circuited.

I remember thinking: Oh.

Not “oh” like surprise.

“Oh” like a door opening

“Oh” like I had been living in black and white and she’d walk in wearing color.

Makena was my first wow experience.

Not my first crush. Not my first “maybe.” Not my first late-night texting thing.

My first wow.

And the moment I realized it wasn’t just attraction— that it was something deeper— wasn’t even when she kissed me.

It was earlier than that.

It was Thursday afternoon in late fall, the kind where the sky is low and gray and everything feels like it’s happening underwater. We were sitting in the art room after school because I was “finishing something,” which was code for I didn’t want to go home yet.

Makena didn’t even take art. She had just wandered in, like she always did, as if my space belonged to her too.

She sat on one of the stools beside my table, swinging her leg slightly. I remember she had this tiny cut on her knuckle, and she kept picking at it without realizing. Her hair was longer then, falling into her eyes. She smelled like clean laundry and peppermint gum.

I was working on a piece— charcoal and ink, messy and layered, something that looked like a storm trying to become a face. I was embarrassed by it in the way you’re embarrassed by anything honest.

Makena leaned in to look.

“What is it?” she asked.

I shrugged, pretending I didn’t care. “Nothing.”

Makena didn’t accept that. She never did.

She looked at the paper for a long time. Longer than anyone else ever did. Most people glance at art like they’re skimming a text message. Makena stared like she was trying to understand the person who made it.

Finally she said, “It’s like…you.”

I laughed nervously. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It is,” she said. “It’s just not a pretty one.”

I rolled my eyes, but my chest felt warm. “Okay, so what does that even mean?”

Makena’s gaze stayed on the paper.

“it’s like you’re trying to hold everything together,” she said slowly, “but you’re also like not. Like you’re letting it break on purpose.”

I acted nonchalant, but deep down I froze.

Because she wasn’t describing the drawing anymore.

She was describing me.

And it hit me then, so suddenly I almost felt dizzy: she could see me. Not the version of me that performed. Not the version of me that joked too much or worked too hard or smiled when she was tired.

The real one.

The one I didn’t even know how to explain.

I stared at her, and she finally looked up. Her eyes met mine like it was nothing, like she hadn’t just reached inside my ribs and named something I didn’t know had a name.

“What?” she asked, like she was confused by my silence.

“Nothing.” I said too quickly.

Makena tilted her head. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you pretend you don’t feel things,” she said.

I scoffed, but it came out shaky. “ I do feel things.”

Makena’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No, you think things. You feel them too, but you act like you can solve them if you think hard enough.”

I hated her for being right.

I looked away, staring at the charcoal dust on my fingers.

Then Makena did something that changed the temperature of the room.

She reached out and took my hand.

Not interlacing fingers. Not romantic.

Just.. holding it.

Like it was normal.

Like she wasn’t holding a live wire.

Her thumb brushed the side of my finger, absent-minded, like she wasn’t aware she was doing it.

And my entire body went quiet.

It wasn’t fireworks.

It wasn’t a movie…

Something real.

I remember thinking, very clearly: Oh.

Not “oh” like surprise.

“Oh” like a door opening.

“Oh” like I had been living my life behind glass and she had just put her hand on the other side.

Makena didn’t say anything. She just held my hand while I stared at my unfinished piece, suddenly unable to breathe.

And that was when I realized:

I didn’t just want her.

I trusted her.

And trusting someone felt more terrifying than wanting them.

Because you can want someone and still pretend it doesn’t matter.

But trust makes you real.

And that kind of love doesn’t disappear just because time passes. It just changes shape. It becomes something you can carry without bleeding. If you’re lucky

And suddenly I wasn’t in art anymore.

Trader Joe’s.

Back under the lights that made everything too bright.

Back in aisle seven, where the air still smelled like oranges and cold plastic packaging.

Back in my body, which suddenly felt like a place I didn’t fully control.

Makena was still standing there. In front of me. Holding the oranges like she had nowhere to be.

Like she hadn’t rearranged my entire understanding of love and then left me to live with the consequences.

She glanced at the tulips in my basket.

It made me aware of how ridiculous I probably looked— like a person trying to buy proof of softness in a store that sells it for $3.99.

Makena shifted her weight.

“So,” she said.

Just one word.

The kind of word people use when they’re standing on the edge of something and pretending it’s not a cliff.

And I realized I had no idea what kind of story this was going to become.

A reunion. A goodbye.

Or just one more reminder that the past isn’t dead.

It’s just quiet. numb.

Until someone says your name the way they used to.