The rain had started to drizzle, a soft, misty veil that blurred the neon lights of the city into streaks of pink and gold. I pulled the brim of my cap lower, my face mostly hidden beneath its shadow as I stepped off the curb. I wasn’t one to go unnoticed, even in an unassuming hoodie and mask, but tonight wasn’t about recognition.

The adrenaline from the concert still hummed faintly in my veins, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the restlessness that always followed a performance. Something about this city felt heavier than others. Maybe it was the air, damp and thick with memories. Or maybe it was just me, weighed down by the ache I’d been carrying for two years now.

My hands were shoved deep in my pockets as I walked aimlessly, the soles of my sneakers splashing through shallow puddles. And then I saw him.

It was like a punch to the gut—one that knocked the air clean out of me and left me standing frozen in the middle of the street.

No way.

My breath hitched as my eyes locked onto the figure standing just a few feet ahead, beneath the awning of a dimly lit café. The rain pooled around his feet, the soft light casting a faint glow around his silhouette. His hair was slightly damp from the drizzle, and in his hands was a small notebook, its edges frayed and worn.

It was unmistakable, no matter how much time had passed. No matter how much I had tried to convince myself I’d never see him again.

But now, here he was.

The world seemed to tilt, the distant sound of cars and chatter fading into a dull roar. For a moment, all I could do was stare. My fingers twitched inside my pockets, my instincts battling with my pride and guilt.

He looked different. Older, maybe, or just... quieter. There was a stillness to him now, a kind of calm that didn’t belong to the shy, timid bandmate I used to tease mercilessly. But what hurt the most—what made my chest feel like it was caving in—was the look in his eyes.

Gone was the spark of hope that used to shine, however dimly, behind his shy smiles. What was left now was something muted, like an ember that had long since burned out.

My throat tightened as memories clawed their way to the surface. The fights. The jokes that went too far. The way he had thrown himself into danger without hesitation that night at the concert, shoving me out of the way and paying the price for it. The way he’d left—disappeared without a trace—while I was too wrapped up in my anger and fear to stop him.

And now...

Now, all I could see was the notebook in his hands. The sentences scrawled inside that he had no choice but to rely on now. It hit me like a weight in my chest: he couldn’t hear the rain, couldn’t hear the low hum of the city around us.

The silence between us stretched, unbearable.

What am I even supposed to say?

My mind raced, every word I’d ever rehearsed crumbling into dust. I felt a lump forming in my throat as the shame began to creep in, bitter and relentless.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. I’d imagined this moment before, a hundred times. Maybe at an award show, where I’d spot him in the crowd and finally apologize. Or maybe he would show up backstage one day, with that small, unsure smile, and we’d finally talk.

But not like this. Not in the middle of the rain, two years of distance and regret stretched between us like an unbridgeable chasm.

I took a shaky breath, my jaw tightening as I tried to steady myself. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape the guilt gnawing at my insides.

He deserves so much better than this, I thought bitterly, my gaze lowering for a moment. Better than me. Better than the world we dragged him into.

But then my eyes flickered back to him, and for the first time in years, I felt that same helpless, overwhelming pull I’d always tried to bury under my pride.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that someone who gave so much—his time, his effort, his safety—was left with nothing. Not even his voice in a world that had refused to listen to him.

My hands curled into fists at my sides, the rain now soaking through the fabric of my hoodie. I wanted to move, to say something, do something. But I couldn’t. The weight of everything left unsaid kept me rooted in place.

You’ve always been better at running away, a voice in the back of my mind whispered. Just like before.

But this time, I didn’t want to run.

This time, I wanted to stay. Even if I didn’t deserve to.