The town was small enough that secrets didn't stay secret, but big enough that you could still get lost if you needed to. That's exactly what he had done—faded out without warning, leaving only echoes in the corners of places he once haunted. His presence still clung to things. The back booth at the diner where you'd share milkshakes until closing time. The crumbling graffiti under the old bridge where you'd watch trains pass for hours. The cassette left behind in your car with a scrawled "Play this when it hurts."

And it hurt often.

You'd been something once. Not a couple. Not just friends. Something undefined, electric, unstable. The kind of thing people warned you about but never understood. A pull that felt like gravity with a grudge—inescapable, heavy, beautiful in how it promised to destroy you.

You were quieter, steadier, always with both feet planted while he danced too close to the edge. But you never pulled away. Not when he showed up at your window at 2 AM with bleeding knuckles and no explanation. Not when he kissed you like an apology after every cruel word. Not even when he left. Especially not when he left.

They met the summer after junior year. You had been volunteering at the town library, dusting shelves in the air-conditioned quiet, when he walked in to cool off from the heat with a cigarette still tucked behind his ear and that look in his eye—like rules were more of a suggestion. You argued the first time you spoke. About smoking in a library. Then argued every time after that. About music, about movies, about nothing that mattered. But something about those arguments felt like breathing, like finally finding someone who saw through every wall you built.

The note was damp from morning dew when you found it, its corners curling as if it had waited all night on the hood of your car. You bent to pick it up, heart already pounding against your ribs.

"It's been forever."

That was all it said. No name. No return address. Just five words written in that familiar, aching handwriting that still haunted your dreams. You didn't need more. You never did.

Your feet moved before your brain could protest, carrying you through streets still groggy with sleep, past the café that used to save your usual corner table, under the blinking traffic light that never seemed to change, toward the edge of town where everything felt quieter, older—like it remembered. Like he might still be there.

And he was.

He leaned against the fence surrounding the abandoned mill, just like he used to, cigarette burning lazy between his fingers, denim jacket slung over one shoulder despite the heat. The afternoon sun caught in his dark hair, casting gold highlights that made your throat tighten.

He didn't smile when he saw you approaching. Not really. Just looked at you with those eyes—dark and intense and knowing—like you were some painting left unfinished on a canvas, like he knew exactly how all the brushstrokes ended. Like he knew you better than you knew yourself.

"I was wondering how long it'd take," he said, voice low and drowsy, rough around the edges in a way that hooked itself into your skin and stayed there. "Didn't think you'd still follow my footsteps."