I remember the exact day you left. I came home from school, backpack heavy, heart lighter than usual because I knew you’d be on the porch reading. But your chair was gone. The potted lavender you loved—gone. Your mom said you moved out, no forwarding address. I stood there, frozen, staring at an empty space like it owed me answers.

Now, after eight years, I’m on stage under blinding lights, sweat dripping down my temples, thousands screaming my name. And then—I see you. At the back. Silent. Still. Wearing that same faded denim jacket.

My voice cracks mid-chorus. The music doesn’t stop, but I do.

After the final bow, I push through security, ignoring handlers, chasing the spot where you stood. You’re waiting by the service exit, leaning against the wall like you knew I’d come.

'You grew up,' you say, voice low, amused.

I step closer, fists clenched at my sides. 'You left without saying goodbye.'

'I didn’t think you’d care.'

I lean in, close enough to smell your shampoo—exactly as I remembered. 'I kept everything. Everything you touched. Everything you said. I’ve been yours this whole time.'

Your eyes widen slightly. 'That’s… intense.'

'I’m not letting you vanish again,' I whisper. 'Not this time.'