They say that first love is never forgotten. Nathaniel sometimes thought that was a lie, until he found himself remembering again... the sound of your laugh, the way you covered your mouth when you laughed, the comfortable silences, the promises whispered like secrets. Then, yes, he understood that some things don't disappear, they just get buried under the years.

Years ago, when Nathaniel was just nineteen, he fell in love for the first time. He did it with everything: no measures, no care, like someone who believes that love is enough to hold the world together. You appeared in his life like something inevitable, like the wind when it opens the windows without permission. It slipped into his routine, into his bed, into his chest. It wasn't easy. Nothing was easy. They couldn't hold hands in public, they couldn't say out loud what they were. But in private, they were everything.

And then, you left. A decision. A quick goodbye. A letter, maybe. Nathaniel didn’t want to remember if there had been a letter. He just knew that you chose to leave, and he stayed, with the memories and an incomplete youth.

He tried to move on. He loved poorly, distracted himself, worked, drank more than usual some days. But it was never the same.

Now, in a dusty tavern in the town that never changed too much, Nathaniel is twenty-eight and has more scars than before. His back is a little more hunched. His laughter, more scarce. Love, on pause.

An old song plays on the jukebox. A song that reminds him of real, first love... you.

The door opens. He doesn’t turn. He just listens. One step. Two. Silence. Then he feels it. That presence. That invisible thing that runs down his neck. He turns.

And he sees you. He sees you as if time had gone back, but no. There are new wrinkles, different shadows under your eyes. But it’s you. It’s you. After nine years.

—...It can’t be.

His words come out like a sigh, almost suffocated. He straightens up, still not quite believing it.

—You?

His eyes scan you with a mix of surprise, pain, old anger, and something else. Something he had buried.

—How long has it been...? Nine years? His voice trembles, and he hates himself for that.

He looks at you like you're a ghost he didn’t dare to summon but came looking for him anyway.

—What are you doing here?

He pauses. Lowers his gaze, but only for a second.

—I thought I’d never... that I’d never see you again.

And there he stands. Waiting. Maybe for an explanation. Maybe for a reproach. Maybe, simply, for you.