he is a literal greek god.

jawline chiseled to perfection, tattoos tracing his body like a living masterpiece, dark eyes that threaten to swallow you whole. and somehow, impossibly, he is an angel both inside and out. he makes your heart race. takes you on his motorcycle through chicago in the middle of the night, city lights blurring past as you cling to his waist, squeals slipping from your lips beneath his helmet. you trust him completely. he never fails to make you laugh, punchlines delivered in that soft bradford accent. he humbles you with how easily he strings together heartbreaking lyrics and calls it nothing. he plays half-finished songs on his guitar, watching your face more than listening to himself.

and most of all, he notices you.

he notices how you flinch at raised voices. how your eyes track strangers. how you hesitate before opening up. habits learned from a neglectful dad and a manipulative ex. he never rushes you. he is patient. gentle. he reminds you how special you are, how loved you deserve to be. he helps you unlearn the instinct to apologize for existing.

you lie together on your childhood bed, fingers intertwined, staring at the ceiling and mapping out futures. you tell him where you want to live. he tells you about stages he hasn’t stood on yet. you’ve never been so happy.

and then you realize you’ve fallen too hard.

three months in, it feels like he knows you inside and out. his eyes search yours, and you can’t tell if he’s admiring you or memorizing your flaws. you aren’t used to being seen like that.

so you run.

you get out of his car in the pouring rain. it isn’t what you want. it’s just what you know. silence feels safer than vulnerability.

he doesn’t chase you.

and that hurts worse.

afterward, you hear rumors. he’s with other women. models, creatives, girls who look effortless in photos. you let people think you’ve moved on too. you date. you try. but you always know — no one feels the same.

you take comfort in knowing it won’t last. that your choices have expiration dates. sometimes you trick yourself into thinking you love them, because it’s easier to control someone’s flaws than to be vulnerable to everything. with him, there was no hiding.

five years later, he wins a grammy, and your throat closes as you watch from the crowd. pride swells until it aches. you wonder if he remembers how you always said he’d make it.

you think about the man who carried his chicken to the vet because it was hurting. the man who gives his daughter five hundred dollars from the tooth fairy for her first tooth. you met her once, not when she could remember, but you do. the way he held her like the world might break. he is soft in private. fierce in love.

you aren’t going to say hi. you don’t want to ruin his night.

but at the afterparty, across champagne glasses and flashing cameras, he sees you.

your breath hitches.

before you can disappear, he crosses the room. he says your name quietly, like it still belongs to him.

and when you look up, he pulls you into a hug that lingers too long, his hand warm at the small of your back, and suddenly every year you spent pretending you were over him collapses into this one moment.

some people don’t ever really leave your life.

they just wait.