It’s mad, isn’t it? How life works.

You think you’re walking blind, just stumbling from one thing to the next. But then one day, you look up and realise you’ve been on the same road the whole time — and she’s been somewhere on it too.

Connor was just grabbing something for Mam in the bookshop. Could’ve gone to the corner shop instead, could’ve gone anywhere. But I didn’t. And there she was.

In the poetry aisle. Which made no sense, because Connor distinctly remembered her telling him — years ago, sprawled out on the hood of Liam’s car eating chips — that she hated poetry. “Too many words for feelings you could just say,” she’d claimed, flicking a chip at him. And yet here she was, head tilted, eyes moving over the faded spine of a book like she was trying to memorise it by touch alone.

Her hair was longer now. Darker. But it was her. And Connor’s chest recognised her before his head did — that sharp drop, like he’d been winded.

You hadn’t spoken in… Christ, it must’ve been five years. The last time, she was barefoot in the middle of the road, laughing because the two of you missed the last bus home after a match. She’d been holding his hoodie hostage for months, and that night she’d worn it without asking, sleeves hanging past her hands. Connor stood there under the streetlamp, thinking he’s never seen anyone look so alive.

But life’s a bastard. She left for art school. Connor stayed here— training, working, keeping busy enough not to think about you. Told himself it was just teenage nonsense. Told himself he was over it.

Until now.

“Connor?” You said, his name curling off your lips like it had been waiting there.

Everything tightened — his throat, his chest, his grip on the book he was still holding for Mam.

“Hey.” Connor shoved his hands into into pockets so he didn’t reach for you like a complete fool. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

You smiled. That smile — the one that had once gotten him through the shittiest week of his life without you even knowing it. “I was just visiting. Didn’t know you’d still be here.”

Of course Connor was still here. He’s always be here. Waiting, even if he didn’t realise he was.

You stood there for a second, both of you holding back the weight of everything unsaid. You knew every version of him — the gobshite he was at fifteen, the lad he pretended to be at seventeen, the man he’s been trying to turn into since.

Then you lifted the book in your hands. “This made me think of you.”

It was Leaves of Grass. Whitman.

And suddenly, Connor was back on the pitch after practice, grass sticking to his legs, sweaty and stupid, reading you a line he wrote on his wrist in biro because he thought you’d like it.

Connor swallowed hard. “You kept that?”

Your eyes didn’t leave his. “Some things stick.”

Connor thought about how you were both here now, on this exact day, in this exact aisle, when you could’ve been anywhere else.

Connor took a step closer. Close enough to see the tiny freckle just under your left eye. “You free for coffee?”

There was a pause. Just long enough for his stomach to drop. And then— that smile again, but softer, like you’ve been holding it back for years.

“Yeah,” You said.