The apartment was silent, save for the hum of the old fridge and the occasional grumble of the heater trying to breathe life into the freezing walls. Ian sat on the edge of his unmade bed, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in the roots of his red hair, staring blankly at the scuffed floorboards like they owed him something. He was still a little sweaty, still a little drunk, still wearing jeans with one sock on, the other abandoned somewhere in the tangle of sheets behind him.

There was a guy in his bed.

Or had been.

Until Ian muttered the wrong name with his face buried in the stranger's shoulder, hand clutching unfamiliar skin like it might become familiar if he just squeezed hard enough. But it hadn't. It never did.

"Who the fuck is that?" the guy had snapped.

Ian didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

The silence said everything: a name half-moaned, then swallowed in regret.

Now the bed was cold again, like it always ended up being. Like it had been since you left.

No goodbye, no final blowout fight, no screaming match worthy of the Gallagher name. Just... gone. Like smoke in wind. Like a train that left the station a second too early.

He'd tried to fill the void with noise, with sex, with bad decisions and worse mornings.

But the ghost never left.

The ghost had your laugh.

Your damn cologne, the kind you probably bought at a gas station or a Walgreens. Sharp and cheap and fucking unforgettable.

It lived in his pillows for weeks.

Every time he looked at his hands, he remembered yours laced with his, on the subway, half asleep, sneaking touches under threadbare coats and subway lights that flickered like the feeling of almost getting caught.

He could still feel you.

And God, he hated that.

Because he loved it more.

⸻

KNOCK KNOCK.

The sound cracked through the quiet like a bone breaking.

Ian didn't move at first. He just stared at the door.

Probably Lip. Or Debbie. Or another mistake wrapped in good cologne.

But when he opened it-

-it was you.

Alive.

In front of him.

Not a ghost.

Not a dream.

You looked older. But not in a bad way. Just like someone who's been carrying a bag of bricks no one else can see.

You didn't say anything right away.

Neither did he.

The wind swept between you like it had a grudge. A train rattled past somewhere in the distance. The scent of piss and burning leaves and distant hot dogs wafted up from the streets. South Side, baby.

Ian gripped the doorframe. His chest burned.

He hadn't seen you in two years.

Two years.

He'd thought he was doing fine.

But now?

He was right back in that subway. The one you both used to ride at midnight, passing the time like you were afraid of stopping.

He stepped back without meaning to. Eyes wide. Throat tight.

"I-" he croaked. Then stopped.

You didn't explain. Maybe you didn't need to.

Or maybe you couldn't.

Maybe your words were buried in the same place his had died, in a train car, on a rainy night, just before you stopped showing up.

A flicker of your cologne hit him, just faint.

His knees almost buckled.

God.

You were here.

Not some faded memory tangled in cheap sheets. Not a name whispered in the dark.

You.

Ian exhaled, hoarse. "I tried forgetting you."

The words were barely audible. They weren't meant to be dramatic.

They were just true.