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skzophreniic · 23 days ago

Text

🔷 say she wanna fuck me later; girl im into it

featuring: aussie singer christopher bahng x afab reader

genre: smut with plot

warnings: toxic relationship. semi-public sex. illegal drug use, alcohol use. extremely concerning behavior from ALL characters. i am in no way condoning or romanticizing any of these actions, it's just a work of fiction. DO NOT TAKE DRUGS. if you, or any of your loved ones suffer with addiction please click here. minors do not interact.

notes: part one of my new series. chase atlantic songs X Skz. this one is inspired by the song into it. i highly suggest listening to it as you read. also, i have no idea how drugs work guys, so im just making shit up, don't judge me. as usual, feedback is always appreciated! or you can hit me up and we can squeal together lmao

The first time, it was a mistake.

That’s what he told you, breathless and wrecked, his forehead pressed against yours in the dim light of a hotel room neither of you belonged in. But mistakes don’t happen twice. They don’t happen over and over, city after city, his voice hoarse from performing, his hands shaking from whatever he took before he found his way back to you.

Mistakes don’t leave bruises in the shape of his fingers on your hips. They don’t make you crave the taste of smoke and liquor on his lips, don’t have you counting the hours until he stumbles back into your orbit, drenched in sweat and sin.

But here you are, again.

The hotel is different this time—different city, different skyline, same story. The sheets smell like someone else’s perfume, and his shirt is wrinkled like it’s been pulled off and put back on in a hurry. You don’t ask, and he doesn’t offer. He just stands there, framed by the glow of the streetlights bleeding through the window, looking at you like you’re something inevitable.

He swipes a hand over his face, exhales slow. “You shouldn't pick up when I call.”

“Don't call then.”

His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile, but there’s no humor in it. He unbuttons his shirt with one hand, the other spilling the contents of his little plastic bag on the nightstand by the bed. You watch from across the room, in that little black dress you know he likes.

He presses his fingers against his own tongue, wetting it, before pressing it against the white powder, hard enough for it to stick, then sucks on his finger.

You watch as his lips part, as his pupils darken, as his shoulders drop just a little like the weight of the world isn’t so heavy when he does this. He tilts his head back, eyes slipping shut, and you recognize the look that crosses his face—devotion. The kind of surrender that people spend their whole lives chasing.

He only ever looks like that for two things.

Drugs.

And you.

The thought makes your stomach twist, but you don’t dwell on it. Because he’s looking at you now, licking his lips, reaching out a hand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, voice thick, lazy.

And you go. Of course you do.

His fingers trail up the hem of your dress, slow, deliberate, as he tugs you between his legs. “You hate this, don’t you?” he muses, hands skimming your thighs, breath warm against your skin.

You don't answer, instead opening your mouth and lolling out your tongue, asking.

His gaze flickers, dark amusement curling at the edges of something deeper, something neither of you are willing to name.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, tapping his finger against your tongue, smearing the remnants of his high onto your taste buds. “That desperate for a taste?”

You close your lips around his finger, suck slow, let your teeth graze his skin just to watch his jaw tighten. Just to remind him that you know how to play this game, too.

He exhales sharply, tilting his head as he watches you, watches the way your lips part when he pulls his hand away. “Fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent.

He presses his finger back against the powder, and onto his own tongue, before he's sitting up and kissing you before it dissolves, pressing it against your tongue.

The bitterness coats your tongue, mixing with the taste of him, and for a second, it makes your head spin—not just the drugs, but the way he kisses you, slow and deep, like he’s trying to crawl inside your lungs. Like he wants to ruin you in a way that sticks.

His hands are on you now, gripping your hips, tugging you closer until you’re straddling his lap, the fabric of your dress riding up your thighs. His fingers dig into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. Like maybe this—whatever this is—grounds him in a way nothing else does.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters against your lips, the words slurred, smudged with exhaustion and chemicals. His hands slide up, tracing the curve of your spine, fingers ghosting over the back of your neck. His breath hitches when you shift against him, when you bite down on his bottom lip just hard enough to make him groan.

“But you keep calling,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see the way his pupils are blown wide, his lips parted.

A sharp exhale, his fingers tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to make you tilt your head back. “You like it,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The truth is already there, thick in the air between you, tangled up in the way you keep coming back to this—to him.

His grip tightens, his fingers threading deeper into your hair, and when he tugs, your breath stutters. He watches you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, like he’s memorizing the way you react to him. Like it matters.

Maybe it does. Maybe that’s the worst part.

His lips ghost over yours, a breath away, teasing. “Say it,” he murmurs.

You swallow, pulse hammering, his breath hot against your lips. His words linger between you, thick and taunting, daring you to deny it.

But you don’t.

Instead, you let your fingers slide up his chest, nails scratching lightly over his skin, just to feel the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. You tilt your head, lips brushing against his.

“I’m into it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, his grip tightening on your thighs, dragging you impossibly closer. “Show me.”

Your hands trail down his chest, slow, deliberate, like you’re mapping out all the places you’ve already claimed.He watches you, his breath shallow, his pupils' dark pools swallowing up what little light remains in the room. You know he’d been smoking before you got there. The drugs have hit by now—he’s drifting, untethered—but you know he sees you. Feels you.

His hands roam, greedy and desperate, slipping under the hem of your dress, gripping you like this is the only thing keeping him from spinning out.

Your lips hover over his, teasing. “Is this what you want?”

His breath stutters, a sharp inhale through his teeth. His fingers tighten on your thighs, his body coiled so tight you almost expect him to snap. His lips part, but he doesn’t answer, just watches you, pupils wide and dark, pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips. It’s fascinating to see–the way his entire body is covered in goosebumps and you’ve barely even touched him, pupils blown wide, following your every move.

“I want you on it,” He breathes, practically whines.

You smirk, rolling your hips once, your panties against the bulge straining against his jeans, slow, deliberate, just to watch the way his jaw clenches, the way his breath shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. “On what?” you murmur, teasing, even though you already know exactly what he means.

“Don’t start,” he warns, voice low, wrecked. His head falls back against the headboard, eyes locked on you, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Don’t act like we haven’t done this before.”

You drag your nails down his bare chest, roll your hips again, slower this time, watching the way his fingers twitch against your thighs, the way his breath comes out in a ragged, uneven exhale. His chest rises and falls erratically, his shirt slipping from his shoulders, exposing more of his skin to your wandering touch.

His patience is hanging by a thread—you can feel it, see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his grip on you tightens. You could push him, keep teasing, but there’s something intoxicating about having him like this—already undone before you’ve even really started.

Chris’s hands slide up, bunching up your short dress so that his fingers splayed wide over your bare ribs. “I swear to fucking God,” he breathes, voice strained, almost desperate. His hands slide down your body to unbuckle his belt, but his hands are shaking so badly, all he does is fumble.

You catch his hands, stilling them, and he looks up at you, dazed. “Relax,” you whisper, teasing.

His hands flex against your thighs, a sharp inhale cutting through the thick air between you. “I can’t.”

You make quick work of his belt, undoing the buckle with deft fingers, sliding the leather free before tossing it to the floor. His breath hitches when your hands move lower, when you palm him through his jeans, feeling the heat of him through the fabric.

His head falls back against the headboard with a muted thud, his hands gripping your hips, bruising. “Fuck,” he exhales, voice barely more than a breath.

Your gaze flickers over his shoulder, to the sheets that don’t smell like you. The perfume clings to the air, sweet and sickly, a reminder of whoever warmed his bed before you got here. A lesser woman might bite her tongue, pretend not to notice. But you aren’t her, and he sure as hell isn’t the kind of man who deserves the courtesy of silence.

“Guess she wasn’t enough for you, huh?” you murmur, voice dripping with something venomous, something possessive. You cock your head, smirking as you press your palm against the bulge in his jeans. “Didn’t scratch the itch?”

Chris’s jaw flexes, his fingers tightening on your hips. “Don’t,” he warns, voice low, frayed at the edges.

But you’re not in the mood to play nice. Not when he keeps coming back to you like this. Not when he acts like you’re some bad habit he can’t quit, even with other girls in his bed, on his lap, under his hands.

You lean in, lips grazing his ear. “Maybe she didn’t let you fuck her like she hated you,” you whisper, rolling your hips against him. “Maybe she didn’t make you work for it.”

Chris exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, eyes blown wide with something feral. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. For a second, he just stares at you, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. And then—

You barely have time to react before he shoves you onto your back, your head hitting the pillows as he looms over you, the air between you charged, electric. His hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, like he needs to feel your pulse beneath his fingers. Feel how it hammers against your throat, just for him.

Chris laughs, breathless, humorless. “You talk shit like this,” he mutters, shaking his head. “But you keep coming back.”

“So do you.”

His hand tightens around your throat, just enough to make your breath stutter, just enough to remind you who’s in control. His grip is firm, possessive, like he owns you, like he's daring you to fight him on it.

"You always run your fucking mouth," Chris mutters, voice dripping with venom, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "But you always end up right here, legs open, dripping for me."

You glare up at him, nails digging into his forearm, but you don’t deny it. You can’t. The proof is slick between your thighs, your body betraying you like it always does when it comes to him.

He tilts his head, watching you like he’s amused. "What’s wrong, baby? Nothing smart to say now?" His fingers flex around your throat, a silent warning. "Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought."

You swallow, the movement pressing your throat against his palm. You refuse to break first.

His grip slides down, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before gripping your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slow, teasing. “You wanna act like this doesn’t get you off?” He tilts his head, smirking. “That’s cute.”

His other hand trails lower, dragging up the hem of your dress, the rough pads of his fingers grazing over your bare thighs. The anticipation coils in your stomach, tightening with every second he takes his time.

“Bet you’re already soaked for me,” he muses, voice dipping lower, darker. “Bet you’ve been waiting for this.”

You glare up at him, defiant, but the moment his fingers press against the damp fabric between your legs, your breath stutters. He hums, smug. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

His fingers move slowly, a light, teasing touch that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively, chasing more. Chris watches, amused, eyes flickering between your face and where his hand disappears under your dress. “You say my name when you get yourself off?” he asks, voice thick with arrogance, fingers pressing harder, rubbing slow, torturous circles over your panties. “Or do you pretend I’m not the only one who gets you like this?”

You don’t answer, but you can’t stop the way your body responds to him, the way your thighs tremble as he keeps working you open.

Chris exhales sharply, dragging your panties aside, his fingers slipping through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Dripping for me, baby.”

His fingers leave you for only a moment, just long enough to reach for the small mirror on the nightstand, the neat white lines already waiting for him. You watch as he rolls up a bill with practiced ease, bringing it to his nose. He inhales sharply, the sound cutting through the thick silence between you, head tilting back as the high crashes through his system.

Chris exhales slow, blinking up at the ceiling, and for a second, he looks completely weightless—like the chaos in his head has stilled, if only for a moment. Then his gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, lips curling into something dark and satisfied.

“You love this shit,” he mutters, voice heavy, thick with the rush of chemicals and lust. His fingers tease you, slick and lazy, dragging through your folds with just enough pressure to make you squirm. “Love letting me fuck you up, huh?”

His fingers push inside, slow, lazy, and your nails dig into his forearm, grounding yourself in the press of his body against yours. He watches, lips parting slightly, mimicking yours, as he curls his fingers, dragging them along that spot that makes your back arch and your thighs shake. The smirk that pulls at his lips is nearly smug.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something darker. “You act like you don’t fucking need this.”

Your body betrays you, hips rocking forward, seeking more. Chris laughs, low and dark, withdrawing his fingers completely just to hear you whimper. He watches the way your lips part, the way your chest heaves, taking in every twitch, every shift. You can feel his breath ghost over your lips when he leans down, his nose brushing yours.

“You love letting me wreck you, don’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, taunting. His fingers trail up your inner thigh, featherlight, so close to where you want him but refusing to give in just yet. “Love knowing that no matter how many times I walk away, you’ll let me crawl back inside you like I fucking belong there.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh, tipping your chin up in defiance even as your body betrays you, rocking toward him, silently begging for more. “Fuck you,” you mutter, voice thinner than you’d like.

Chris grins, all teeth, his fingers still teasing, still hovering just shy of where you need him. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

You shift beneath him, pushing up just enough to press your lips against his, to feel the remnants of the drugs on his tongue, the taste of chemicals and sin coating his mouth. He groans, low and guttural, his control slipping just a little when your teeth graze his bottom lip. His grip on your thighs tightens, and then suddenly, he’s pushing you back down against the mattress, pinning you beneath him with his weight.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath uneven. His fingers flex against your thigh, like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You make me so fucking stupid.”

Your body arches into him, aching, pleading, but he’s already there, already lining himself up, already sinking inside with a ragged exhale that sounds like relief.

It’s fast, brutal, nothing soft about it. He fucks you like he needs it, like this is the only way he knows how to breathe. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, keeping you where he wants, where he needs.

Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, steals the words from your lips until all that’s left is the sound of skin on skin, his low, filthy groans, the way your name drags from his throat like a prayer he doesn’t believe in.

Chris doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He’s chasing his own high, using you for it, taking what he wants, what he needs. And you let him. You take it, every rough thrust, every bruising grip, every desperate, needy sound that falls from his lips.

Because this is what you both do.

Use. Ruin. Destroy.

______________________________________________________________________

The dressing room is small, barely more than a closet, the air thick with sweat and the lingering hum of the crowd just beyond the walls. Chris is still pulsing with the energy of the stage, his body electric, his skin glowing under the dim bulbs. He tastes like salt and heat, his chest still rising and falling too fast, adrenaline keeping his limbs loose and restless.

"You—" The word barely leaves him before you're on him, pushing him back against the counter, fingers yanking at his belt, fumbling, rushed. He helps, sort of—hands unsteady, shoving his jeans down just enough, breath coming fast and uneven.

No time for teasing. No time for anything.

You drop to your knees, and he lets out this ragged sound, half-laugh, half-moan, his fingers finding your hair, gripping tight when your mouth wraps around him. He’s already hard, already twitching, already a fucking mess, and the second your tongue drags over him, his hips jerk forward like he can’t control it. You lean in and drag your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and wet, feeling him throb against your lips before you take him fully into your mouth.

"Shit—" His hand tightens, a sharp pull against your scalp. "Yeah, just like that—"

The door isn’t locked. Anyone could walk in. His name is being screamed just outside this room, time ticking down, the show waiting. It makes it worse. It makes it better.

The heat of his skin, the weight of him in your mouth, the way he twitches every time your tongue drags along a sensitive spot—it’s overwhelming. It’s intoxicating. You press your hands against his thighs to steady yourself, taking him in deeper, swallowing around him until the tip brushes the back of your throat.

Chris groans, a wrecked, guttural sound, his grip in your hair tightening as his hips twitch forward, the edge of desperation creeping in. "Fuck, I–" He barely gets the words out before his breath shudders, thighs trembling under your touch.

Someone knocks at the door.

"Chris! Two minutes!"

His whole body stiffens, a sharp inhale punched out of his chest, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pull away. If anything, the urgency makes him more reckless, more desperate. His abs clench as you suck him harder, faster, messy and wet, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin.

He’s so fucking close. You can feel it in the way his thighs tighten, in the way his breath comes sharp and shallow, his cock pulsing against your tongue. His grip in your hair turns bruising as he grits out, "M’gonna—"

And then he’s spilling down your throat, his whole body shuddering, hips stuttering against your lips as he moans—deep, broken, lost in it. You swallow everything, letting him ride it out, your tongue flicking over him until he’s too sensitive, his body twitching as he groans low and shaky.

For a moment, all he does is breathe. Ragged, uneven. His chest rising and falling too fast, his fingers still tangled in your hair like he doesn’t want to let go. Chris exhales sharply, running a hand over his face, still catching his breath.

A thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smearing the mess, his half-lidded gaze burning into you, still glazed, still wrecked. But then, for a heartbeat, something shifts.

His eyes, usually dark with unrestrained hunger and desperation, flicker with an unfamiliar softness. The relentless, feverish rhythm of his touches falters, and he hesitates. Instead of reaching to claim you with the same raw urgency, his hand lingers on your cheek. His rough grip slackens, and his expression—so often a mask of relentless need—betrays a flicker of something else: tenderness.

Then he’s pulling you up by your jaw, meeting you halfway to kiss you. It’s a quiet, gentle kiss—a soft caress that speaks of apologies and longing rather than conquest. His lips, warm and unexpectedly tender, press against yours with a delicate insistence that makes your heart both ache and flutter. It leaves you gasping for breath in a way he’s never left you before.

There's a banging at the door. “Chris! We need you out here, now!”

The spell is broken. He’s stepping away, and you’re stepping forward, reaching for him,

“Chris–”

But he’s shaking out his wrists, already turning toward the door.

He doesn’t look back before he leaves.

______________________________________________________________________

It’s the last time you see him. Or even hear from him. Every text goes unanswered, every call, straight to voicemail. You wait–wait like the pathetic dreamer you are, hoping that that kiss meant something to him, falling deeper into the void of delusion you’ve built with your own two hands. You devour any information about him you can find on the internet, anything, knowing full well how much of a desperate bitch you’re being.

But you can’t bring yourself to care. Not with that last kiss lingering on your tongue, not with the curse of knowing you almost had him, almost had him in the way you wanted—completely, irrevocably, beyond just the heat and the ruin.

Almost.

The days stretch into weeks, and then months. Every night, you tell yourself this is the last time you'll check his socials, the last time you'll search his name, the last time you'll replay every second of that final night over in your head like a fucking broken record.

But you do it anyway.

Over and over.

______________________________________________________________________

It’s been a year; you're over it. You swear you are.

The afternoon sun spills lazily over campus, warming the stone pathways as you stand in a loose circle with your friends, conversation drifting easily between topics. Laughter hums around you, light and unbothered.

“I swear to God,” Yeji groans, tossing her head back dramatically, “if Professor Allen assigns one more article, I’m gonna start sending him readings. See how he likes it.”

Hyunjin snorts. “You’re acting like you even do the readings.”

Yeji glares. “First of all, rude. Second of all, I skim—”

“—the first paragraph and call it a day,” you finish for her, smirking.

She gasps, clutching her chest. “Et tu?”

You laugh, about to respond, but stop dead when someone brushes past you. You don’t recognize him, not at first, with his hood up, jacket zipped, his face mostly obscured. But that scent. You would recognize it anywhere.

Something deep and familiar, the mix of his cologne and skin, a warmth that lingers even after he’s passed. Your throat goes tight. Your breath stumbles.

No.

He wouldn’t. He knows better.

You force yourself to keep talking, to keep nodding, to not turn around. But your pulse is already thrumming, a slow-building panic mixed with something darker. Because he’s close. He was right there. And when you finally allow yourself to glance sideways, just for a second, you see him.

Not fully—just the slant of his jaw under the hood, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s holding himself back. He doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t say a word. But when he reaches the library steps, he slows.

Waits.

Your stomach tightens.

No.

No, no, no.

Your fingers clench around the strap of your bag.

Before you know it, can register what the hell you're doing, an excuse is falling from your lips and you’re turning on your heel and following him.

The moment you step inside the library, you spot him.

Chris stands tucked between the bookshelves, hood drawn low over his face, but it does nothing to hide him—not from you. You know the way he holds himself, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for something—someone.

Your blood is already simmering as you make your way toward him, each step measured, controlled. You don’t rush. You don’t let yourself look panicked. Because if you do—if anyone sees—this could all go to hell.

Chris notices you immediately, his shoulders dropping like he’s relieved, like he actually thought you wouldn’t come. And for a split second, his expression is almost soft—almost. But then he sees the fury in your eyes, the tension in your frame, and that softness vanishes.

The moment you see him, you know.

Not just because of the scent—familiar, overwhelming, still burned into your memory after all this time—but because of the way he moves. Too jittery, too restless, like his own skin is too tight, like the air around him is pressing in from all sides.

Chris is high.

You can see it in his pupils, blown wide and glassy, in the way he can’t stay still, shifting from foot to foot, running a hand through his already-messy hair. He looks wired, strung out on something more than just adrenaline.

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and for a moment, you think he might actually speak first. But then his mouth snaps shut, jaw clenching as he exhales sharply through his nose.

You don’t ask him why he’s here. You don’t ask him where the fuck he’s been.

Instead, you step closer—just enough for the scent of him to hit you full force, for his breath to mix with yours in the sliver of space between you. His pupils track the movement, slow and deliberate, and for the first time in a year, you feel the weight of his presence again, pressing down on you like a vice.

And you fucking hate it.

"You're out of your mind," you whisper, voice cold and sharp. "Do you even know where you are?"

It clings to him, thick and suffocating—the way his pupils swallow the color of his eyes, the way his hands twitch like he can’t quite keep them steady. He’s a mess of shallow breaths and restless energy, swaying just slightly on his feet, like the weight of the world is finally crushing him.

And maybe it is.

“I need your help,” he rasps, voice raw, broken.

The words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. A year. A whole fucking year of nothing—no calls, no texts, no explanations. You grieved him like a ghost, hated him like a curse. And now he’s just here, standing in front of you, looking at you like you’re the only person in the world who can save him.

Your stomach twists violently, rage and disbelief clawing their way up your throat. “You have to be kidding me.”

Chris drags a shaky hand through his hair, pacing, restless. “I don’t have time for this.” His voice is fraying at the edges, unraveling. “One of my own friends—someone I trusted—sold me out. They tipped off the cops. If they find my stash, I’m done. My career, my future—it’s over.” His breath shudders. “I need you to hide it.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

You take a step closer, your breath shallow, your voice steady even as your hands tremble at your sides. “You don’t get to do this, Chris.”

His jaw tenses, and for the first time, his mask slips. Just enough for you to see the exhaustion, the weight pressing down on him. His fingers twitch again, like he wants to reach for you but knows he shouldn’t.

“I didn’t mean to—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “I fucked up.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Which time?”

Chris exhales through his nose, his gaze flicking to the ground, then back up to you. He looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he finally, finally, takes a step forward. Just enough that the space between you shrinks, the scent of him clouding your senses. Just enough that you can feel the heat of him, the way he’s barely holding himself together.

“I need you,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t have anyone else.”

Your breath hitches. Your resolve wavers.

Chris notices. Of course he does.

His fingers ghost over your wrist, just a brush, just a test.

And when you don’t pull away—when you don’t slap his hand, don’t shove him back—he exhales, like he’s been holding it in for a year.

“Please,” he murmurs.

Your hands clench at your sides.

You should say no. You want to say no. Every part of you is screaming at you to walk away, to let him deal with the mess he made, to let the consequences finally catch up to him.

But then you look at him. Really look at him.

Chris isn’t just high—he’s unraveling. His fingers won’t stay still, his shoulders are too tight, his breath too ragged. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes. Wide and bloodshot and filled with something you can’t name, something that makes your chest ache even as your fists clench. He looks like a man on the edge of a cliff, teetering too far forward. Like he’s one wrong move away from falling.

And somehow, against all logic, he’s decided you are the thing that might keep him from going over.

Your stomach twists violently.

"You can’t ask me for this," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Chris swallows, his throat working around something thick. "I know."

But he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, like without you, he might just come apart completely. And it makes you feel sick. Because part of you—some deep, fractured part of you that never really stopped wanting him—wants to be that for him.

You drag in a slow breath, clenching your jaw so hard it aches. “One week.”

Chris blinks. “What?”

“You get one week,” you repeat, voice sharper now, cutting through whatever fog is clouding his head. “You figure your shit out, and then you come take this garbage back because I’m not—” Your voice wavers, and you hate it. You steel yourself. “I’m not getting caught up in this, Chris.”

His eyes flicker, just for a moment, a sharp flash of something like hope, but the remnants of desperation still cling to his expression. “One week,” he repeats, voice barely above a breath, like he’s testing it out, like he doesn’t believe it. But you can see it in him—he’ll take whatever you’re willing to give, no matter how little, no matter how broken it might be.

You exhale sharply, stepping back a fraction, distancing yourself, even though every fiber of your body wants to close that space. The library feels too small now, too suffocating. Chris remains still, his presence like a weight pressing down on you, but you refuse to move closer, refuse to let him drag you back into his chaos.

Chris nods once, sharp and small. “One week,” he repeats, and the words should sound like a deal, an agreement, but instead, they land like a promise. Or maybe a plea.

You holds his gaze for one more second, then turn before you can second-guess herself. Chris stays where he is, rooted to the floor, watching you walk away. His jaw tenses, his breath shudders, but he doesn’t move.

Because if he moves, he might follow her.

And if he follows, he might never let you go again.

______________________________________________________________

The week crawls by, each day stretching longer than the last. You try to focus—on classes, on assignments, on anything that isn’t him—but it’s useless. His voice lingers in the back of your mind, his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You tell yourself you won’t wait. You won’t check your phone every time it vibrates. You won’t wonder if he’s going to show.

But when it finally rings—his name glowing on the screen—you answer before you can think twice.

"Hey."

Silence. A hesitation, just long enough for doubt to creep in. Then, his voice—soft, uncertain.

"I'm outside." A beat. "If… if that's still okay."

Something tightens in your chest. You glance out the window, at his car lingering just outside your building, forcing your grip to loosen around your phone.

“Are you going to come up?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant, fingers toying with the hem of your t-shirt. You’re just in that simple tee and sweatpants, your face bare. It’s the first time you haven’t dressed up to see him.

You can hear him inhale, imagine him bouncing his knee from where he sits in his car. “I didn’t think you’d want your roommate to see me.”

You brush your hair out of your face, eyes locked on the car outside. “She’s not here. Visiting her parents for the weekend.”

Chris is quiet for a second too long, like he’s weighing the invitation, considering if he should take the step over the line he’s already toeing. Then you hear the jingle of his keys as he pulls it from the engine. “Give me a sec.”

Your stomach tightens as you hang up, fingers gripping your phone a little too hard. You don’t know why you said that. Why you gave him the chance to be close again. You should’ve told him to stay in the car, should’ve just handed him his shit and sent him on his way.

But instead, you stand there, frozen, pulse hammering in your throat as you listen for the sound of his footsteps in the hall.

A knock. Soft. Hesitant. Not the way he used to knock, not the way he used to waltz into your space like he belonged there.

You exhale, slow and measured, before unlocking the door.

And there he is.

Chris stands in the dim glow of the hallway light, hood still up, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks… tired. Not just in the way his eyes are rimmed red, the slight tremor in his fingers, but deeper than that. Like he hasn’t slept right in months. Like the weight of whatever’s been chasing him is finally catching up.

He exhales when he sees you. “Hey.”

He’s sober. Exhausted, his hair standing in a hundred different directions like he ran his hands through it a million times, but sober.

“You look like shit,” you say finally, your voice quieter than you intended.

Chris huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Feels about right.” He ducks his head, his hair in his eyes. “You look beautiful.”

You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the edge of the door. You don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t let the way his words settle in your chest distract you from the fact that he shouldn’t be here—that this shouldn’t be happening.

Chris shifts on his feet, glancing past you, toward the inside of your apartment. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t push. Just waits.

You should tell him to leave. Tell him to take his shit and go.

Instead, you step back. Just enough.

Chris exhales, something flickering in his expression—something like relief, like gratitude, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him in. He hesitates for only a second before crossing the threshold.

The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly, the air in the room is heavier. You can feel him everywhere. The scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating off him. It’s suffocating and familiar and everything you swore you wouldn’t let yourself want again.

He doesn’t belong here. Not in the soft glow of your apartment, not in the quiet hum of your space that’s been untouched by him for over a year. But he’s here anyway, and you can feel it in your bones, the way he fills the room, the way the air thickens just by his presence.

You close the door. Neither of you speak.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, finally pushing his hood down. His dark eyes flick around the room, taking in everything—the textbooks on your desk, the half-empty cup of tea on the counter, the blanket thrown haphazardly over the arm of the couch. Domestic. Normal. Everything he isn’t.

His gaze settles back on you, his throat working like he wants to say something, but the words don’t come.

So you speak first.

“Do you want something to drink?”

He clears his throat, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I–yeah. Just..just water.”

You nod, turning toward the kitchen. Your movements are steady, controlled, but your heart is hammering in your chest, every nerve hyper-aware of the man standing behind you.

When you turn back to him, glass in hand, he’s watching you. Not in the way he used to—not with hunger, not with heat—but with something you can’t quite place. His fingers twitch at his sides, and when he finally reaches out to take the glass, his touch lingers. Barely. Just long enough to send a shiver up your spine.

He drinks, slow, deliberate. Like he’s using it as an excuse to keep from speaking. His throat bobs, his lips parting around the rim of the glass, and you hate that you notice, hate that you remember what those lips felt like against yours, what they tasted like when he kissed you that last time—soft and lingering, like an apology, like a goodbye.

But he’s here now.

And you don’t know what the fuck that means.

Chris exhales as he sets the glass down, raking a hand through his hair. His shoulders slump, his body finally stilling in a way it hasn’t all night. He looks wrecked. He looks lost.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. His gaze flickers to you, raw, exposed. “I don’t know if I even can.”

You lean back against the wall, arms cross across your chest. “Fix what?”

He leans his head back opposite you, exhaling. “I don’t know. Everything. Myself.” He glances down at her through the hair over his eyes. “Us.”

Your chest tightens but you purse your lips, unwilling to say anything. His expression softens.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words. Small. Insufficient. But the weight of them still lands heavy in the space between you.

You fold your arms over your chest. “For what?”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you know he understands the real question beneath your words. Which thing, Chris? Which fucking thing are you apologizing for?

His jaw tenses. “For all of it.”

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in your lungs for a year. You don’t know what to do with this—this version of him, the one who looks at you like he regrets everything, the one whose voice doesn’t hold the usual bravado but something closer to guilt.

It would be so much easier if he came back the way he left. If he was still that same reckless, selfish, untouchable version of himself. You could hate that version. You could send him away without hesitation.

But this? This is harder.

Chris shifts on his feet, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to disappear like that.”

“You did, though.” The words come out flat. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He flinches. “I thought it was better that way.”

“For who?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drop to the floor, his fingers flex at his sides. “For you.”

A bitter laugh pushes past your lips before you can stop it. “Bullshit.”

His gaze snaps back up. You shake your head, unable to keep the anger from bleeding into your voice.

“You don’t get to come back after a year and act like you did this for me, Chris. You left. You fucking ghosted me like I was nothing. And now, what? You suddenly need something, so I matter again?”

“No.” His voice is sharp, urgent. “That’s not—fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

Your stomach clenches. You hate how badly you want to believe him.

You look away, focusing on the wall, the floor, anywhere but his face. “Then why did you leave?”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Chris exhales, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Rougher. “Because I was fucked up. Because I thought I was protecting you. Because I didn’t know how to be around you without wanting more than I should.”

Your breath stumbles.

Chris steps forward—just half a step, just enough that you can feel the warmth of him again. He hesitates, fingers twitching at his sides, like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“I wasn’t good for you,” he murmurs. “I’m still not.”

Chris is standing close now, too close, his presence like gravity, pulling you in even when you know you shouldn’t let it. His breath is shallow, his fingers still twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes. Dark, wide, searching.

You take a slow breath, steadying yourself. "Then why are you here?"

Chris exhales sharply, his gaze flickering away for just a second before locking onto yours again. “Because I didn’t know where else to go.”

The words settle between you like a confession, and something in your chest twists painfully.

You should be angry. You are angry. But anger is easy. Anger is safe. What scares you is the part of you that still wants to reach for him, to pull him in, to fix the cracks in him even though you know you’ll only end up breaking yourself in the process.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. "You don’t get to do that, Chris. You don’t get to leave me for a year and then show up and say that."

“I know.” His voice is quiet, raw. “But I’m here anyway.”

Chris is still waiting, still watching you like he’s bracing for you to tell him to go. And you should. You should slam the door on this before it’s too late, before you let yourself believe that this time will be different.

But then Chris reaches out.

It’s hesitant, like he expects you to flinch away, but you don’t. His fingers barely skim yours, a whisper of a touch, but it’s enough. It sends something electric skittering through your veins, something familiar and dangerous and impossible to ignore.

Your breath catches.

Chris notices. Of course he does.

“I fucked up,” he says again, softer this time. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

You shake your head, exhaling a laugh that isn’t really a laugh at all. “You think you can just show up here and apologize and everything will be fine?”

“No,” he says. “I think I can show up here and tell you the truth for once.”

You stare at Chris, searching his face for any sign that this is just another one of his half-truths, another attempt to say just enough to keep you from slamming the door in his face. But there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now—something raw, something stripped down to the bone.

And that’s almost worse.

Because if he’s telling the truth, then you don’t know what to do with it.

Your voice is quieter this time, not as sharp, not as sure. “Then say it. Say whatever it is you came here to say.”

Chris swallows hard, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back. Then he exhales, his breath shaky, his whole body tense like he’s about to step off the edge of something.

“I left because I was scared,” he says finally. “Scared of what I felt. Scared of what it meant.”

Your stomach tightens, a sharp pull of something between anger and heartbreak. “Scared of what?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Of you.” His gaze flickers away for half a second before he forces it back to yours. “Of how much I—” He stops, his jaw clenching. “Of how much I fucking needed you.”

The confession knocks the breath from your lungs.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his features. “I didn’t know how to handle it. You were—” He stops again, shaking his head like the words won’t come out right. “You made me feel things I didn’t know how to deal with. And instead of facing it, I ran.”

You inhale sharply, something breaking open in your chest. “And now?”

Chris takes a step closer.

You don’t step back.

“Now I know that running didn’t change anything,” he says. His voice is rough, almost desperate. “I still need you. I still—” He swallows. “I never stopped.”

Chris shifts, hesitating like he’s afraid any sudden movement will make you disappear. His voice is softer now, barely above a whisper. “Say something.”

You wet your lips, forcing yourself to breathe. “What do you want me to say, Chris?”

He flinches, just a little. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like he thought you’d have some kind of answer, when the truth is, you don’t.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “That you understand? That you—” He exhales sharply, his hands curling into fists before he relaxes them again. “That you still—”

“Don’t.” The word is sharp, cutting through whatever he was about to say. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

Chris swallows hard, nodding once. Like he gets it. Like he deserves it.

The night hums around you—distant traffic, the whisper of wind through the trees—but all you can hear is the quiet sound of Chris breathing, the weight of everything he isn’t saying pressing between you.

You sigh, softer this time. “Chris.”

His gaze snaps to yours, desperate, waiting.

“I can’t be the reason you stay,” you say, your voice steady but gentle. “And I won’t be the reason you break yourself trying.”

His brows draw together, a flicker of something like panic flashing across his face. “That’s not—” He stops, jaw tightening. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” You tilt your head, studying him. “You show up here, after a year, after leaving me behind, and suddenly you want another chance?” You shake your head, not in anger, but in something softer. Sadder. “You’re still searching, Chris. Still trying to find something to hold onto. And I won’t be that. Not like this.”

Chris runs a hand over his face, his shoulders tense. “I’m not asking you to fix me.”

“No,” you say quietly. “But you want me to be the thing that makes this easier.”

He flinches.

You don’t push, don’t press where it hurts, but you hold your ground.

“I loved you,” you admit, and the words feel like pulling stitches from an old wound. “Maybe I still do. But I won’t have you in pieces.”

Chris stands there, his breath uneven, his whole body trembling like he’s barely holding himself together. Then, barely louder than a whisper— “I don’t know how.”

His voice cracks, and the sound of it—God, the sound of it—splinters something inside you. His eyes are wet, his throat working as he tries to swallow down the weight of his own admission.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. It would be so easy to reach for him, to pull him in, to tell him you’ll help him figure it out. But that’s not your place. Not anymore. Chris drags a shaky hand through his hair, his breaths uneven.

“I don’t—I don’t know how to fix myself.” His voice is thick with tears, his body tensed like he’s waiting for you to turn away, to give up on him entirely. “I don’t even know where to start.” You exhale slowly, steadying yourself before you speak. “Then start small.”

Chris blinks at you, like he wasn’t expecting that. You keep your voice soft but sure. “Find a rehab center. Talk to a therapist. You’ve been carrying all of this alone, and it’s too heavy. You need help, Chris.”

His jaw tightens, his hands clenching into fists before he releases them. He nods once, barely there, like he’s trying to take in your words but isn’t sure how.

“Figure out what’s hurting,” you continue, gentler now. “And then work on healing it. Not for me. Not for anyone else. For you.”

Chris exhales sharply, dragging his sleeve across his face, but the tears keep coming. “I don’t want to do this without you,” he whispers. “I don’t want—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You swallow against the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to lose you either,” you admit, the words quiet but honest. “But if I hold on to you like this, we’ll both drown.

He doesn’t move when you reach for him, cupping his cheek softly, thumb brushing away the stray tears. You pull him toward you, resting your forehead against his.

Chris squeezes his eyes shut, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. For a moment, you think he might argue, might fight against the truth of your words like he always does. But when he opens his eyes again, there’s something different there—something breaking, something shifting.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” he admits, voice so quiet it almost gets lost in the night air. “What if I—I don’t know how to be without you.”

You step forward, just a little, just enough to be close but not close enough to fall. “You won’t be without me,” you say, gentle but firm. “I’ll be hoping for you. I’ll be rooting for you. But I can’t be with you—not like this.”

Chris nods, but it’s shaky, uncertain, like he’s trying to make himself believe it. “And if I get better?” His voice is raw, desperate in a way that tugs at something deep inside you. “If I—if I figure it out?”

You inhale, the ache in your chest tightening. “Then maybe you come find me.”

Chris’ breath stutters. His eyes flick across your face like he’s memorizing every part of you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.His hand reaches for your face, shaking, hesitant, fingers threading through your hair.

You let him touch you, just this once. Just for a moment.

His fingers tremble against your skin, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. But you won’t let him make this harder than it already is. You bring your hand up, gently wrapping around his wrist, grounding him.

“Chris,” you whisper, and the way his eyes snap to yours—like your voice is the only thing tethering him to the earth—almost undoes you.

He swallows hard, blinking rapidly against the tears still threatening to fall. His thumb ghosts over your cheek, the touch so heartbreakingly familiar it makes your chest tighten. “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But you have to.”

His breath shudders as he exhales. “And if I’m not strong enough?”

“You are.” Your fingers tighten around his wrist, steady, certain. “You just have to believe it, too.”

Chris lets out a broken sound—something between a laugh and a sob. He presses his forehead to yours, his body trembling. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you.”

You close your eyes for a brief second, letting yourself feel it. The weight of him, the warmth, the way his presence has always felt too much and not enough all at once.

Then, you pull back. Not much, but enough. Enough to be clear.

“This isn’t goodbye,” you murmur. “This is me giving you the chance to come back as the version of yourself you’re meant to be.”

Chris’ breath catches. He nods, but it’s slow, reluctant. Like a part of him is still holding on, still hoping there’s another way. But there isn’t.

You step back, and Chris’ hand falls away from your face.

The night air feels colder without his warmth so close.

He stares at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, like he’s trying to find something—maybe a reason to stay, maybe a reason to believe he can do this.

Then, finally, he takes a step back.

And then another.

His hands shake, his breath still uneven, but this time, he doesn’t fight it. He just looks at you, memorizing, holding on to whatever piece of you he can before he turns to go.

He pauses for a moment, glancing back at you. "What did you do with it?"

You know what he's asking. You smile slightly. "Threw it in the river the same day I got it."

Chris stares at you, something flickering in his eyes—something like understanding, something like devastation. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his hands clenching at his sides.

He exhales a shaky breath, glancing away for a moment before looking back at you. "Good," he says, but it sounds like it hurts to say it.

You nod, the ghost of a smile still lingering on your lips. "Good," you echo, softer.

Silence stretches between you, heavy but not unbearable. It feels like an ending. A real one.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, eyes flicking over you one last time, like he's trying to commit you to memory. And then, finally, he turns.

You watch him go.

His shoulders are hunched, his steps slow, hesitant, like he's still fighting every instinct that tells him to stay. But he doesn’t.

This time, he leaves.

And this time, you let him.

The night is quiet when he's gone, the absence of him settling over you like a sigh, like the closing of a book you thought you might never put down.

You inhale deeply, closing your eyes for just a moment.

Then you turn, stepping back into the light, and walk away.

______________________________________________________________

Two years have passed.

You know this not just by the changing seasons or the inevitable countdown to graduation but by the world itself shifting, reshaping in ways you never expected.

Chris went on an indefinite hiatus from music nearly a year ago. The headlines had been relentless—speculation, concern, theories spun out of control. But the truth, the quiet truth buried beneath the noise, was that he had admitted himself into rehab.

You remember staring at the news article, your coffee growing cold between your hands. There had been no fanfare, no dramatic statement—just a quiet, honest confession in an interview months later: I needed help. So I got it.

You never reached out. And he never did either.

Now, you’re here—twenty-two, a senior in college, balancing coursework and a part-time job at a café that smells like burnt espresso and exhaustion.

And right now, you’re pissed.

Rush hour has turned the place into chaos, your boss is breathing down your neck about an order that isn’t even yours, and someone just knocked over an entire tray of drinks, leaving you to mop up a mess that isn’t your fault.

You exhale sharply, pushing stray hair from your face as you grab your notepad and make your way to the next table, your voice tight with forced patience.

“What can I get you?”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“How about five minutes of your time?”

The voice stops you in your tracks.

Deeper. Steadier. But still him.

Your grip tightens on the notepad as you finally look up.

Chris leans back in his chair, watching you with that same quiet intensity that always made you feel like the only person in the room. You don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. You just stare back, unimpressed.

“Five minutes,” you say flatly.

His lips twitch. “Generous.” You arch a brow.

“I can make it three.”

Chris huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I think I’ll behave.”

You tap your notepad against the table, tilting your head. “So? Is this where you tell me you’ve spent the last two years soul-searching in the mountains, learning inner peace from a wise old man with a beard down to his knees?”

Chris grins, quick and easy, like muscle memory. “Close. The wise old man was my therapist, and his beard was more mildly unkempt than knee-length.”

A snort escapes you before you can stop it. Chris’ smile softens at the sound, like he’s been waiting for it. You shut it down quickly, clearing your throat.

“So, you actually did it.”

His expression turns serious, just a little. ��Yeah. I did.”

You hold his gaze. “Good.”

Something flickers in his eyes, something unreadable. Then, casually, “You still throw things in rivers when you don’t know what to do with them?”

Your stomach tightens at the memory. You should’ve known he’d bring it up “Depends. Planning to give me something else to get rid of?”

Chris hums, considering. “I did have a mix tape ready. Very moody. Lots of self-pity.”

You roll your eyes. “Tragic that I’ll never hear it.”

“Truly.” He pauses, watching you again. “You look good.”

You hesitate for half a second before responding, keeping your voice light. “I get a lot of fresh air.”

Chris smirks. “Ah, yes. The glamorous café life.” “

You joke, but I will make you pay for a coffee if you keep sitting here.”

He presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Chris laughs again, but this time, it’s quieter. Realer. Silence settles between you, softer than before.

Then, smoothly—too smoothly—he leans forward a fraction. “So… is there someone?”

You blink. “Someone what?”

He shrugs, all casual, like he’s not watching you too closely. “Someone who gets to bother you during your shifts without needing to buy coffee first?”

The question shouldn’t catch you off guard, but it does. You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness.“That’s what you’re asking with your last two minutes?”

Chris huffs a laugh, but his fingers tap restlessly against the table. “Just curious.”

You hesitate, then shrug. “I’ve gone on dates.”

His jaw flexes, just barely. “And?”

You sigh, giving him a look. “And nothing.”

Chris watches you for a second longer, then nods, like he’s filing the answer away. “Good.” You raise an eyebrow.

“Good?”

His lips twitch. “I’d hate to be competing with some six-foot-something finance bro.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “I’d pay to see you go head-to-head with one.”

Chris hums. “I’d win.”

You scoff. “Bold assumption.” He grins. “I’ve been working out.”

You roll your eyes but don’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips.. “And you?”

Chris hums, considering. “Well, my therapist and I had a very meaningful relationship for a while there.”

You snort. “That does not count.”

“I disagree. We had weekly dates. I overshared. He judged me just enough.” Chris grins, then shakes his head. “No. No one.”

Silence again.

Chris watches you, waiting. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for more than you’re willing to give.

You tap your pen against your notepad, weighing your next words carefully. Then, finally—soft, simple, certain—you say, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Something shifts in his expression, something that looks a little like relief. Like maybe, after all this time, he finally believes he deserves to be.

You nod toward his empty cup. “But if you’re planning to sit here all night, you’re gonna have to order a coffee.”

Chris grins, small but real. “Yeah?”

You shrug. “House rules.”

He leans back in his chair, considering. “Then I guess I’ll stay a little longer.”

The café hums around you, the rush of customers fading into background noise. You should be moving, taking orders, doing anything other than standing here, caught in the pull of something that still feels a little dangerous.

But you don’t move.

Chris studies you for a second longer, then exhales, slow and steady. “One coffee, then,” he says, tapping the table. “Surprise me.”

You scribble something on your notepad. “You’re getting decaf.”

He groans. “Cruel.”

Chris groans, but there’s no real frustration behind it—just something softer, something familiar.

As you turn to leave, he calls after you, voice quieter this time. “Hey.”

You glance back.

His fingers drum lightly against the table, hesitation flickering across his face before settling into something steadier. “It’s good to see you.”

The words land heavier than they should. You don’t let them show, just offer a small, knowing smile. “Yeah,” you say. “You too.”

Then, before the moment stretches too long, you slip back into the rush of the café—into the orders, the chaos, the normalcy of it all. But there’s a shift, small but undeniable, like something once left behind has found its way back.

And maybe this time it’s here to stay.

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