It was the first time in three years that she'd seen him.
So much had changed, but so much was the same.
His shirt was one she'd seen before. Either that, or it just seemed like it was because of it's familiarity. Because it was so him.
For hours they talked, about their lives now, about their lives then - their lives together.
He knew her major before she said it, and she knew which friends he was talking about without his using their names. He knew exactly which love note she was referring to, exactly which photograph she was describing.
So much had changed in three years, but all the little things were the same.
And for the million things they'd forgotten or missed out on, they remembered every little detail.
How he liked his meat cook, and that she ate lemons like most people ate oranges.
TV shows, pets' names. Photos that haven't been looked at in years, but sit in a box somewhere, buried by more recent memories.
They were distant memories to one another - almost lost in the folds of time; but somehow, they'd made a place in their minds for all the almost-meaningless details, despite all the larger memories that had been lost in the hundreds of Saturday afternoons that had passed since their last lunch together.
It was the little things that stuck, like her favorite candybar, and the song he played on repeat during long car-rides.
We make a place for these things, so that years later, at lunch with a love long since lost, all the memories associated with his or her favorite candy bar comes flooding back, and suddenly you're 15 again and so in love.