Chapter Text
Breaking up with Luke was one of the most mature things you ever did at the age of seventeen.
You actually sat him down on that worn-out flannel duvet that smelled faintly of him and teenage dreams, and you gave him this whole rehearsed speech about your future, or more like his, a speech that felt like tearing your own heart out just to keep it from getting shattered into a million pieces later. It was a planned, heartbreaking act of self-sabotage that came from mere love.
You had practised it many times before you got to his place, not dramatically though, just in your head while brushing your teeth, maybe while staring at the ceiling the night before, and outside of his house, telling yourself that you were doing the right thing, for the sake of both.
Your chest felt tight. “You’re about to go do something huge, Luke. Like, actually huge. And I’m so proud of you. I am. I just,” You shook your head. “I'm not sure if I fit into that version of your life.”
“I don’t want to hold you back,” you finally spat out.
Things had begun to shift. The YouTube channel he had with the boys, the one you used to help them film in his house, had bloomed into something you could barely recognise now. You were so happy for him, you really were, a quiet pride swelled in your chest as you watched the view counts turn from hundreds to thousands. But his world was getting bigger, and you could feel yourself becoming a smaller part of it.
Luke looked genuinely confused. “You’re not holding me back.” He blinked at you. “What does that even mean?”
“It means I don’t want to be the girlfriend back home that you feel bad about.”
Luke didn’t understand, at least not at first. His blue eyes clouded with hurt. The sight of it was so pure that it made you want to take it all back. You saw the reflection of that boy you grew up with, but you knew you couldn't do it.
Whatever that was was eating Luke alive, the feeling didn't even have a name
Luke drove home that night, the cold air biting at his pale knuckles where they gripped the steering wheel. He showered, scrolled on his phone. Tried to sleep. But his brain kept going back to the memory of you, the warm flow of the restaurant windows, your profile, the guy watching you with much intent
It pissed him off. Which was stupid, and he knew it was stupid, which only made it worse. Why was he caring about this now? It's been years. He'd been fine, even more than fide. He'd dated and slept with other people.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling in the dark, jaw tight like he could out-stubborn the feeling.
But the thought wouldn’t leave him, it kept haunting him, somewhat like you did.
Maybe he never actually stopped thinking about you, and the realization made his stomach twist.
Because if he was being honest, maybe that was why nothing after you had ever felt completely right. Maybe that was why he kept noticing little things, searching for something familiar without even realizing it. The same kind of beauty. The same sarcasm. The same way you’d look at him like he was an idiot, but still worth putting up with.
“Jesus,” he muttered into the dark.
He’d slept with you that one time and then spent the next six months mentally kicking himself for it, for blurring lines, for making something already complicated even worse. He’d decided the safest thing—for him, mostly, was to let the connection become a low-maintenance. A fondness, like if you were a distant memory he could visit when he was feeling nostalgic. God, he was a dick for that.
Seeing you with someone else was proof that his gesture of letting go had worked. It should have felt like a success. Instead, it just felt like a loss.
He’d been back in California for four days, holed up in the glass-and-stone house he barely considered a home. The air conditioner hummed, a constant, soulless drone against the dry heat of the San Fernando Valley. He’d ignored emails, let calls from their A&R go to voicemail.
He tried to ignore it. He went out with the guys, drank too much, and tried to lose himself in the noise of a club. But he kept scanning the crowd, a dumb search that he did automatically for a face he knew wouldn't be there.
He tried to write. He sat with his guitar and his songwriting notebook, but all the lyrics summed up missed chances and regret. He wrote for an hour and then trashed everything, crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it against the wall. Distractions weren't working
He argued with himself for days. The thought of calling you, of what he would even say, but only the thought of it made his stomach clench. The fear of rejection was huge and very much possible. But the thought of doing nothing, of staying here in this huge, empty house and always wondering what if, was starting to feel worse, it was eating him alive.
The realization hit him on that same afternoon, while he was slowly drowning in misery on his couch.
His phone storage was almost full, a petty problem, but it was the only thing he'd managed to focus on all day. He opened his gallery and started deleting without indifference, screenshots of dumb tweets and bad pictures. Then he got back to about two years ago, to the last time he’d been home for any real length of time. He was about to just hit ‘select all’ for that month and wipe it clean, to be done with it.
But his thumb stalled over a thumbnail. It was you.
It wasn’t a posed photo. It was a candid, slightly blurry one he’d taken from the passenger seat of your car. You were driving, the sun was already setting and it was streaming through the windshield. You were glancing over at him, mid-laugh, your eyes crinkled at the corners. He remembered this exact moment. He had just made a terrible joke about the song on the radio, one that was so stupid it got a genuine laugh out of you. He remembered the sound of your laugh, echoing in the small space of your car. He remembered the way the warmth of the sun made it all feel like a dream.
He didn't move from the couch. He just sat there, staring at your face on his screen. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of his laptop, still open on the coffee table in front of him.
After a second, he reached forward and pulled it onto his lap. He switched tabs. His finger hovered over the trackpad,
He didn’t check dates properly. Didn’t compare prices. Didn’t even look at the times. He just typed in “Sydney” in the destination field and hit the first one-way flight he could see. The total flashed at the bottom of the screen like it was daring him. His brain finally decided to wake up and started listing every reason this was stupid.
He didn’t even know if you were single. For all he knew, that guy from the restaurant was your long-term boyfriend. Maybe you were happy. Maybe you didn’t even think about him anymore. Maybe you didn’t want to see him. Maybe showing up would just ruin whatever peace you had built without him. The thought of flying across the world just to hear you say “why are you here?” made his stomach twist, but staying here and doing nothing felt worse, it felt like suffocating slowly in a house that was too big and too quiet.
“Fuck it” he muttered, barely loud enough for the empty room to hear, and clicked buy before he could change his mind.
He sat there staring at the screen, waiting for the rush, for something that felt like certainty. Instead, what hit him was this sharp, electric mix of nausea and relief. Like he’d just stepped off a ledge and hadn’t hit the ground yet. It was terrifying. It was reckless. It was very possibly the dumbest decision he’d made in years.
But underneath all of that, buried under the fear and anxiety, there was something else, like something steady. The quiet, undeniable fact that at least he was doing something about it, that He wasn’t just sitting in and rotting inside, letting the what-ifs eat him alive anymore.
--
The flight felt like it lasted a year.
Luke had barely slept in those 16 hours of flight, every time he closed his eyes, his thoughts would go to you. He watched three movies and couldn't tell you what any of them were about. By the time the plane started descending, his stomach had been in a knot for so long that he couldn't think of how it felt normally
He stepped off the plane, warm air hitting him, and he dragged his carry-on behind him, moving toward customs.
He laughed at himself. He was incredibly jet-lagged, dehydrated, and questioning every decision he’d ever made.
He checked into a hotel near his hometown, the first one that popped up when he searched. He tossed his bag onto the chair and just stood there for a second, hands on his hips, staring at his phone on the bed like it was something dangerous.
This was the part he hadn’t thought through. What the fuck was he supposed to say to you? Flying here had been impulsive, but in comparison to straight-up talking to you? It was nothing.
What was he even supposed to say? Hey. I saw you on a date, and it made me spiral and rethink maybe the last three years of my life, so I flew across the world.
He picked up the phone anyway, this was what all this was for, anyway. He then pressed call.
---
Your stomach dropped. You let that phone ring for almost three times before you managed to pick it up, your fingers clumsy against the screen. Why the fuck, out of all people, was he calling you?
In that one millisecond it took for the call to connect, you went straight to the worst-case scenario. An emergency? Did something happen to someone back home? Your chest tightened
“Hello?” You could barely speak
And for half a second, there was just silence.
“Hi,” He answered, and you wanted to puke so badly. His voice was quiet, a little rough, like he hadn't spoken in a while.
“Luke?” you said, because you had to. Because hearing him say one word shouldn’t have been enough to knock the air out of your lungs, but it was.
“Yeah,” he said, and then there was a long pause, like he was gathering himself. “Uh, hey.”
You didn’t say anything. You just stood in the middle of your living room, the TV still on mute, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard you were sure he was capable to hear it through the phone.
“Are you, uh, okay?” you finally managed, your voice tight. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah,” he said again, quickly. “No, yeah, everyone’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He let out a short breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I’m actually in town, you know.”
“Oh,” Your brain was scrambling, trying to catch up.
“Right,” you said. You walked over to the couch and sat down, your legs feeling weak. “How long are you here for?”
“I don’t know,” He admitted, and his voice sounded tired. Like he was clearly running on adrenaline. “A few days, maybe.”
You could practically hear him thinking, weighing his next words. “Listen, I was actually wondering if you might be free tonight. To grab something. Or a drink. Whatever.”
Your stomach did a slow, sickening flip. Tonight. He was asking to see you tonight. After months of radio silence. After years of this careful distance.
“Tonight?” you echoed.
“If you’re not busy, I mean,” he added quickly, and you could hear the uncertainty in his voice and how hard he was trying to mask it. It was so unlike him. The Luke you knew lately was confident, assured, and a little detached. “I just, I’d really like to see you.”
Why? The question screamed in your head. Why now? What had changed? Was he bored, or maybe lonely? Passing through and thinking of you was enough of a distraction?
But another part of you, the part you’d tried so hard to bury, was already putting on its shoes. The way he used to look at you like you were the only person in the room.
It was a terrible idea. The worst idea you could possibly have right now. You had Mark now, kind of? You had planned a second date tonight, and you were texting nonstop lately, but if you were honest, he was the last thing you had in mind right now.
“Okay,” you said before your better judgment could stop you. “Yeah. I can do tonight.”
There was a palpable release of tension on his end of the line, a soft exhale. “Yeah?”
“Sure. Where?”
He named a bar, one in the city, a famous one you could never afford, you agreed, and set a time.
After you hung up, you sat on your couch for a long time, the phone still warm in your hand. The TV flashed colors across the room. You felt dizzy. You’d just agreed to see your ex-boyfriend, the one who broke your heart slowly over the years, the one you were supposedly over.
You texted Mark. Something came up with family tonight, sorry!
He replied almost instantly. No worries. Hope everything’s okay. Talk tomorrow.
The guilt was immediate, a sharp, sour taste in the back of your throat. You were lying. To a good guy. For Luke.
But you were already standing up, heading for your closet. You told yourself it was just a drink. Just catching up. You were an adult. You could have a civil conversation with someone you used to love without it meaning anything.
You picked out an outfit carefully, trying not to look too dressed up, but not too casual. a denim skirt, a nice going-out top, and boots.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror while you did your makeup, trying to see what he would see.
But as you left your apartment, locking the door behind you, you had a thought that haunted you. Nothing with Luke was ever just anything.
--
You spotted him almost immediately.
He was sitting at a small round table in the corner, his back facing the wall. He had a glass of something you couldn't make out in the distance. He looked like he was doing fine, Good.
He hadn’t seen you yet. You had a moment to just look at him, to examine his changes. His hair was a little longer than the last time you’d seen a picture, falling softly over his forehead. He’d lost some of the boyish softness in his face, his jaw was sharper, and his features were even more defined. He was wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, but even in casual clothes, there was some sort of air about him now, a quiet intensity that hadn’t been there when you were together. He looked like a man. A man who was very far from home and very unsure of why he’d come.
You took a deep breath and walked over.
The floorboards creaked under your boots, and his head snapped up. His eyes found yours across the room. For a second, he just stared, and you saw a flicker of something raw and unguarded cross his face before he masked it into a careful neutrality. He stood up as you approached, the movement a little awkward.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low, almost swallowed by the music.
“Hey,” you managed.
You settled for giving him a small, tight smile and sliding into the chair opposite him.
He sat back down, his eyes never leaving your face. “You look good,” he said, and it sounded genuine, not like a line.
“Thanks. So do you.” You folded your hands on the table to keep them from trembling. “Long flight?”
A ghostly smile touched his lips. “The longest.” He pushed the drink menu towards you. “What do you want? My treat.”
“Just a gin and tonic, thanks.”
He flagged down a waiter, ordered your drink and another whiskey for himself. The silence stretched between you, thick and palpable. You could feel him watching you, studying you, and it made your skin prickle with awareness.
“So,” you said finally, because someone had to say something. “Why did you want to see me?”
He took a sharp breath. “I wanted to see you because I owe you a thousand apologies, and I don’t even know where to start.” He shook his head, his gaze dropping again, unable to hold yours, shame. “That night. After the walk. When we…” He scoffed
“I was such a dick,” he forced out, the words with disgust. “I fucked you, and I left. Not literally that night, but I left. I returned to my life, and I treated you like, I don't know, I took you for granted.”
He finally met your eyes again, and the anguish there was so profound it stole your breath. “I was a mess. I was scared, and confused, and so in my own head about what I was doing with my life, and I took the one good, real thing I had left and I used it. I used you. And I am so, so sorry.”
The waiter arrived with your drinks, placing them down with a soft clink. The interruption was jarring. Luke waited until the man was gone before continuing, as if the confession was a thread he couldn’t afford to break.
“You pushed me to follow my dream,” he said, his voice cracking on the word ‘dream’.
“You broke your own heart, so I didn't have to choose. You gave me the freedom to go, and you never once asked me to stay. And what did I do? I took that gift, and I acted like it was my due. I acted like you were just part of some sort of scenery back home. Someone who would always be there, waiting for me.”
He picked up his whiskey, not to drink, but just to hold, his knuckles white around the glass. “I never thanked you. Not properly. Not in a way that meant anything. I sent texts. I called when it was convenient. I kissed you when I was lonely. I treated your love like it was a given.”
He set the glass down with a definitive thud. “It wasn’t. It isn’t. And I think… I think a part of me knew that. That’s why I pulled away even more after that last time. Because being near you, really being with you, even for a few hours, showed me exactly what I was throwing away. And I was too much of a coward to face it.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his hands clasped tightly together. “I saw you on a date. A while ago.” He confessed.
“And it was like a slap. A wake-up call.” His jaw tightened. “It was proof that you weren’t a given. That you could move on. That you had moved on. With someone who was probably nice and stable.”
He swallowed hard.
“It terrified me. But it also helped to make it all clear. The noise in my head just stopped, and there was only one thought— I had to tell you. I had to look you in the eye and tell you that I’ve been an arrogant, selfish prick for years. That you were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I threw you away because I was too scared to deserve you.”
His words resonated deep inside of you. It took you a while to actually process everything that he was spilling out, it was like his heart was in his throat.
“Okay,” you said, the word simple and heavy with meaning.
“Okay,” you repeated, squeezing his hand. “You were an asshole. You’re sorry.” A watery, almost-laugh escaped you.
“I know that all that shit happened between us, Luke, and to be honest, I'm tired of escaping you. I want us to be alright. I forgive you.”
The confession hung in the air, a raw, exposed nerve that seemed to vibrate between you.
The "I forgive you" was like opening a window that had been sealed for years, letting out years of hurt, but it left behind a strange, hollow space. What came after forgiveness? You couldn't just rewind to how things were before, before the slow fade.
The silence that followed your words wasn't comfortable, but it was different. Less charged with accusation, more weighted with a bewildering "what now?"
You both reached for your drinks at the same time, a clumsy, synchronized movement that almost made you smile. You took a long sip of your gin and tonic. He downed half his whiskey in one go, wincing as it burned its way down.
"Another?" he asked, his voice still rough from his monologue.
You nodded. One more. Just to take the edge off.
Another appeared.
Then another.
The alcohol worked quickly, at least on you. The sharp edges blurred. You stopped circling the heavy things. You slipped into old patterns instead, easily. You brought up stupid stories from high school. He groaned and dragged a hand down his face, but he was smiling.
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Not soon, don't think so,” You shot back.
He started doing the same. Moments you’d forgotten. Little things you didn’t even realize had stuck with him.
And somewhere during the third round, the dynamic shifted. The nostalgia turned into loaded looks, his gaze lingered a little too long, and his knees kept brushing yours under the table. You didn't move, nor did he.
He leaned closer. “Do you ever think about that night before I left?” he asked quietly.
You did. Vividly.
“I think about that a lot,” he admitted, eyes locked with yours.
“The way you looked at me like you already knew I was going to mess it up.” You nodded in remembrance.
“I think about a lot of things I shouldn't.”
The admission was dangerous. The rational part of your brain was drowning.
“Wanna get out of here?” You asked.
No. This is a terrible idea. You're drunk. He's drunk. You have something going on, something that's good for you. Bringing him to your apartment is a point of no return. This will undo everything. You'll hate yourself.
“Yeah.”
The cold air hit you like a wall, but it didn't help. It just made the spinning in your head worse. The streetlights were too fuzzy and too bright. You stumbled on the curb and his hand—holding yours—yanked you up.
"Whoa," he mumbled, a drunk grin on his face. "Careful."
You weren't steady. Your legs felt like they were made of rubber.
But your feet kept moving. His hand was warm and sweaty. Your fingers were tangled together. They hadn't in years. It felt weird. It felt familiar. It felt wrong. And the voice in the back of your head kept telling you that
You weren't really walking. You'd bump shoulders, then drift apart, then crash into each other again. Every time you bumped, you felt it—the solid weight of him, the heat coming off his arm. He smelled like whiskey and the bar and something underneath it that was just him.
He started talking, his words slurring into each other. "Member that time... with the thing... and the rain?"
You didn't know what he was talking about. Your brain was too much of a mess to remember. "Yeah," you said anyway, because it was easier to just answer.
He laughed, a loud, messy sound. "You were so mad."
"I wasn't," you lied, shoving at his shoulder. He swayed, and you went with him, both of you stumbling into the side of a parked car. A short, angry beep from the alarm made you jump apart, then burst into stupid giggles. You clamped a hand over your mouth, shushing each other, which just made you laugh harder until your stomach hurt.
You kept going. The sidewalk seemed too narrow. At one point, he stopped, pulling you to a halt. He looked down at you, his eyes dark and unfocused in the shadow of a building.
"You're here," he said, like he was surprised.
"Yeah," you breathed. The word came out as a puff of white in the cold air.
He leaned in and kissed you. It wasn't a good kiss. It was all misplaced, and you felt the sour tang of whiskey. His teeth clicked against yours. You still kissed him back, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt, holding on because the ground didn't feel solid enough.
When you broke apart, you were both breathing heavy, more from the effort of standing up than anything else. The air between you felt thick, sticky with the ghost of that terrible kiss and a sudden, crushing awkwardness. Fuck
You took a step back, your hand slipping from his shirt. The cold air rushed suddenly, and you shivered. "We should..." you started, but the sentence died. We should what? Go home? Go our separate ways? Stop this before it becomes something we can't take back.
Luke watched you, his own smile fading. The drunken haze in his eyes seemed to clear for a second, replaced by something wary. "Yeah," he agreed, though he had no idea what you were going to say. He just knew the mood had died, for whatever reason. "Your place is this way, right?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice. You started walking again, but the easy weave from before was gone. Now every step was deliberate, careful. You were hyper-aware of him beside you, of the space between your bodies. Your hand felt empty and cold where his had been.
This isn't right.
The thought was a knot in your stomach. You didn't want to end the night with the ghost of your first love, tasting of cheap whiskey and regret. It wasn't good for you, or Luke, or Mark.
And yet a darker, selfish part of your brain replayed the feeling of his mouth on yours, the weight of his body. But you want this, that voice whispered. You've always longed for this.
You wanted to run. You wanted to turn around and sprint in the opposite direction, but your legs kept carrying you forward, toward your apartment, toward him.
Every few steps, his arm would brush yours, and a jolt of electricity would shoot through you.
"Sorry," he mumbled, after bumping into you for the third time.
"It's fine," you said, your voice tight. You picked up your pace, trying to outwalk the tension, but he just matched it.
The rest of the walk passed in a suffocating silence. The city sounds—the distant wail of a siren, a cat yowling in an alley—seemed to mock you. Finally, you were there. The familiar, brick facade of your building loomed, a stark symbol of reality. This was it. The end of the line.
Finally, your building.
You stopped at the main door, digging through your purse for your keys. The metal clinked too loudly in the quiet. He stood behind you, close but not touching. You could feel him there. The heat of him. The hesitation.
You found the key. Missed the lock the first time. Swore under your breath and tried again. The door clicked open, the bright lobby lights spilling onto the pavement.
This was the moment. Say goodnight. Just say goodnight and go inside.
He cleared his throat. "So...," he began, his voice low and uncertain. "Can I... come up? For water? Or... just to...?"
No. The answer was immediate and absolute in your head. No, you can't come up. You can’t step into my space like this. You can’t blur the lines again.
You turned to face him, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. The raw hope you saw. It would be so easy to just say yes. To take his hand and lead him upstairs and let the night play out the way you'd both been secretly wanting to since the bar.
"Luke," you whispered, the name tasting like ash. "I... I can't, at least not right now."
He looked away, nodding slowly, a muscle working in his jaw. "Right. Yeah. Of course."
"It's not—" you started, wanting to explain, to fix whatever that was, but there was no explanation that didn't sound like an excuse. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He managed a weak, broken smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I get it. I had no right to anyway."
He took a step back, creating a chasm of cold air between you. He turned and walked away, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders slumped.
This is the right thing.
So why did it feel like you were watching something slip away again?
“Luke!” you called, guilty pounding of your own heart.
He turned around, surprised.
“I still enjoyed tonight,” you said quickly. “I want to see you again.” There it was. The truth you were trying not to admit.
You could see a big smile form on his face, a hint of relief too.
“Alright,” he said softly.
You nodded.
You then stumbled inside, letting the door click shut behind you. You leaned against the cool metal, your body trembling.
He reached for your hand, his fingers interlocking with yours.
"No," he said, his voice cracking. "I can call you every day. I'll fly you out." He sighed, "We can figure it out, I promise you."
“No,” You swallowed. “In the end, I think I’m going to need more than you can give.”
“And I don’t want to become that person,” you rushed to say. “The one who’s always asking where you are. Or why you didn’t call. Or who you’re with. I don’t want to start resenting you because you’re living your life.”
He got quiet
“So that’s it?” he asked.
You hated that question.
“No,” you said quickly. “It’s not ‘that’s it.’ It’s just… I’d rather end it while we still love each other than drag it out until we hate each other.”
He flinched at that.
“We wouldn’t hate each other.”
“You don’t know that,” you said again, softer now.
He didn’t respond right away.
The silence that followed was heavier than any argument that you could've had. He just looked at you, and you looked at him, and in that look, you both said goodbye to a hundred different lives you could have had together.
“I love you,” he added, like that should anchor everything.
Your throat tightened. “I love you too.”
You leaned in and gave him one final kiss, one that would be forever engraved in both of your memories, maybe he would even tell his kids about it one day.
And it was the hardest thing you'd ever done, you had to pull your hand away.
"You have so much ahead of you,” You explained, quietly, “it wouldn't be fair."
After much protest, he understood that you weren't even asking, you were telling him.
You stood up from the bed, your legs unsteady. Walking out of his room felt like walking out of a chapter of your own life.
Luke and the boys left the next month for London.
The contact didn't stop immediately, it continued for a few months. You'd receive a happy birthday text that arrived at 3 a.m., a blurry photo from a recording studio with a text saying "miss u" a generic "Merry Christmas" text sent to a dozen contacts, but you knew yours wasn’t copied and pasted. At least you hoped it wasn’t.
Sometimes he’d call. not quite often
You’d answer on the second ring, so it didn’t look like you were waiting desperately for him.
He’d tell you about his life now like it was this chaotic fever dream. The house. The guys. Cold air. How everything closed earlier than he expected. How the accents still threw him off. How they were getting “so close” to something big.
You’d laugh in the right places. Ask about the boys. Ask if he was eating properly. Ask if he was sleeping. You tried not to sound like a girlfriend. You tried to sound like someone who had gracefully stepped aside.
You started seeing him online more than you heard from him directly. Interviews. Clips. Fan accounts reposting every breath he'd take. Sometimes you’d scroll through dozens of comments written by girls from countries you’d never been to, all of them claiming pieces of him.
It was weird, watching complete strangers fall in love with someone you already knew how to love
It only took a year for him to return. The first few visits were nice.
He'd text you something simple like “I’m home for a few days.” with no expectations attached, it made it easier for you.
You’d meet for coffee at the place he used to complain about the overpriced drinks, the music that was always slightly too loud, yet somehow that was the place he chose anyway.
The first time, you were nervous. Your hands trembled slightly when you saw him push the door open, like the sight of him triggered something that you thought was buried deep inside you. But when you stood to hug him, you felt the familiar scent of him that filled your lungs, how he held you still the same way, and for a moment, you were at peace.
You talked about everything and nothing. How London was treating them, and most importantly, him. The record deal. Studio sessions. And how strange it felt to see his face plastered across the city.
You made a joke about him finally becoming “that guy”, and he rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile that followed.
He told you about the flat they were staying in, how it was smaller than he expected and always cold, how Michael kept leaving dishes in the sink, and Calum refused to admit he was homesick even though he clearly was. Ashton was apparently the only one holding it together.
You laughed, genuinely, it slipped out of you in the same way it used to. It felt like time had stepped aside for the both of you, and you hoped he felt it too, even if he never acknowledged it.
The second visit was easier. You walked along the neighbourhood, the wind tangling your hair. He nudged your shoulder, the same way he used to do when you teased him. You almost forgot you weren't together anymore, it was always in the small things. It was comforting to know the tenderness hadn't disappeared completely.
You passed by the park where you used to sit, the playground, the swings that held countless secrets that you pinky promissed to each other, you didn't point it out, but both of you looked at it for half a second too long.
He told you about how tired they all were, but how no one wanted to stop. You hummed in agreement, and you could see the exhaustion in his eyes.
The walk slowed the closer you got to your house. You just kept talking about nothing, stretching the conversation like it might have bought you more time.
You were standing right outside your house when it happened.
You made some stupid comment about him getting too famous to be seen here, and he stepped closer like he was about to argue, but then you didn't move away, and he didn't
He leaned in first, it stared soft, his hand landing on your waist, pulling you closer, his lips barely bruishing yours.
You fumbled with your keys. Half laughing. The door barely shut before he was on you again, and this time, there wasn’t any kind of hesitation. This wasn't smart. It really wasn’t, and for a couple hours you let it feel like before.
You were just glad that he hadn't outgrown you, at least not for now.
And then he came back again.
He texted you, just not the same this time. The messages became shorter and slower. Simples “I’m home.” or “how’ve you been?” that weren't meant to go anywhere. You noticed it immediately, but you told yourself not to overthink it. He was probably just busy. Seeing family. Catching up with friends. You weren’t together, you didn’t get to expect any special treatment.
Still, it sat weirdly in your chest.
The last time he was here, he kissed you like it wasn’t complicated, he had been in your bed, and this time, he didn’t ask to see you.
And you didn’t ask either. You weren’t going to be the one to reach first.
Then you saw them together at the beach, the one where you had shared some of your most precious moments.
He was laughing, his head thrown back in that way you knew so well, but the sound was aimed at her, the girl he had bought all the way here. He had his hand resting on the small of her back, which made your stomach clench in sickness, in a way that you weren't prepared for. It was the way he used to guide you through crowds.
You stood there at the edge of the car park, the sand warm beneath your feet, watching them. It clicked then, you felt like a ghost haunting a life that was no longer yours. The thought that hit you wasn't a dramatic one, just a quiet realisation that you were just a past he was kind enough to visit.
It all slowed even more. His texts started to feel like echoes from a distant life. You never managed to delete his number, though. It just sat there in your phone, a quiet reminder that your first love was out there somewhere, even if you didn’t know how to reach him anymore.
That’s when you decided to start pulling away, you had had enough of silently waiting for him, for his attention. It wasn’t announced, of course — you didn’t want to make a scene — just a quiet retreat. The next time his name lit up your phone, you let it sit. The message was the same as always, a variation of “wishing you well.” It felt like a line from a script. You stared at it for a long time before typing back a simple “you too.” The effort it actually took felt immense. The texts became even more hollow after that. A picture of the sunset from that same beach was sent with no context. It was a peace offering, a way for him to say “I haven’t forgotten” without having to actually mean anything, and you just accepted it.
The years that followed after that settled you into this comfortable numbness, you had learned to be okay around his mention.
You moved into the city for college, a two-hour drive from the town that held your skeletons. It was close enough to visit and far enough away for you to breathe. You lived content, with all you needed. The girl who broke up with Luke Hemmings at 17 felt distant now.
You still came home for Christmas, birthdays, and even some New Year's Eve. You knew Luke did too, it was strange to feel how that town could be big enough to keep the both of you apart, but you managed somehow. There were even periods of time where you just didn't see him at all. And you didn't feel a thing at all, you told yourself that this is what moving on looked like.
Of course you still saw him, just not physically, sometimes on TV in restaurants, while browsing online, his music faintly playing through the radio. Or sometimes he'd cross your space like a mutual friend's story would maybe show a glimpse of him in the background, or how your mom would mention his mom doing well and asking about you.
And by twenty-two, you were tired of almosts
You had dated after Luke, kissed other boys, lost even more of your innocence, and the majority lasted months, occasionally a year, but to be honest, you were dating just to date, filling some kind of void, and you yearned for a stable relationship. You missed having someone who actually bought something into your life, the feeling of being chosen consistently.
So when your friend Chloe insisted, or well, begged you, that you give her cousin Mark a chance, you agreed.
Mark was nice, not in a way that made your stomach flip, though. He asked you questions and actually listened to the answers. He didn’t interrupt, he was easy.
You found yourself talking more than you expected to.
About the whole city, your apartment with windows that didn’t fully close, college, and how you still weren’t entirely sure what you were aiming towards. He nodded like it all made complete sense, and eventually, you realized you had actually similar backgrounds, growing up aspiring for more. He told you about his job and his dog, which he swore he wasn't emotionally attached to, but clearly was.
The place was warm, it had the kind of lightning that made everyone look softer than they are, and low music was humming in the background. It was comfortable enough that you stayed longer than you planned to. Ordered a second drink. Then a third, you could feel it settling in your chest, that drunk feeling that made your laugh easier and lean a little closer without overthinking it
--
Luke hadn’t driven down this street in years, at least not with intention. But tonight he was feeling especially nostalgic, he was in the mood that makes you take the long way home for no real reason.
He thought about how the town changed every time he came back, new spots where the old store sat, fresh paint on bricks that used to have different signs. Sometimes, whenever he returned, it felt like squeezing into clothes he’d outgrown. Familiar, but it wasn't him anymore.
He was only passing through tonight. Late drive. Windows cracked just enough for cold air to slip in. Music low, almost background noise.
He then saw you, not right away, though, first your shoulder through the window. The movement of your hair when you tilted your head. The way you sat straight but easy, like you belonged exactly where you were. Then your hands were moving as you talked, like you were laying out your thoughts one by one.
He slowed without meaning to, and then he saw him.
The guy sitting across from you. Leaning in and listening.
It all seemed to shift into slow motion in that disorienting way it does when your brain hasn’t caught up yet.
Luke felt his heart jump into his throat so suddenly that it almost embarrassed him. He was flooded with something sharp and immediate — jealousy, maybe, but not loud and not angry. It was this heavy feeling that settled in his chest before he could even name it.
Just as quickly, he tried to snap out of it.