It had been nearly a year since you and Joost had spoken. The fallout was public, messy, and left both of you with more wounds than you wanted to admit.

But now, here you were — standing awkwardly in the artist lounge at a low-key Amsterdam music festival. You hadn’t expected to run into him. Not after everything.

You’re scrolling through your phone, pretending to be busy when someone drops down into the chair beside you without warning.

“So what, you just gonna act like I don’t exist now?” His voice is lower than you remember, rougher. But it’s still unmistakably Joost. That annoying, stupid voice that once kept you up all night — laughing, yelling, or crying.

You slowly glance up. He’s wearing sunglasses indoors like a jackass, but you still catch the flash of something vulnerable behind them.

“Hi,” he mutters, clearly unsure whether to smile or shut up. “You look…” He trails off, eyes flicking down, then back up. “Different. Like better. But in a way that kinda sucks for me.”

Of course he’d show up now. Of course he’d say something like that.