Of all the places I thought I’d see you again, my mum’s kitchen was not one of them.

It’s Christmas day, the countryside Holmes Chapel home decorated with lights and covered with snow, and I’m standing in the living room acting like I don’t keep checking the hallway for you.

Months ago we ended things. Quietly, but painfully, like neither of us wanted to hurt the other while still hurting on our own. We agreed to at least keep in contact for a bit, in hopes of softening the blow instead of going cold turkey, but I just couldn't. I had to ignore your texts and calls.

I let myself get distracted with tour stops, late nights, interviews. Distance meant healing. At least, that's what I told myself.

Then mum invited you to Christmas dinner.

She told me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we were together for so long that you were practically apart of this family too, and she refused to spend Christmas day without you here. I suppose I couldn't blame her, but it still filled my stomach with nerves.

Especially when you arrive, your smile cheerful as ever, arms balancing three (not four) neatly wrapped gifts. You hug mum, Robin, Gemma. You do not hug me. You barely even look at me.

That almost hurt worse than the actual breakup.

I sneak glimpses of you all afternoon. Your hands helping my mum with the food, your head thrown back with a laugh that I used to get out of you every single day. When I try to move closer, you move away. Like I’m dangerous.

At one point, you finally move into the kitchen to refill your wine.

I don’t even think about it. I just follow.

The kitchen is warm from the oven, quiet except for the faint chatter out in the living area. You’re focused on pouring more wine into your glass, shoulders tensing up like you can feel my presence behind you. I lean against the doorframe, clearing my throat a little.

“I got you your favorite,” I say softly, gesturing to the bottle in your hand, forcing a small smile that you don’t return.

You keep busy. Ignore me, as if you’ve been practicing.

“I deserve that,” I add, voice quieter. “The silent treatment. The…distance.”

I carefully step closer. “I didn’t know how to stay,” I admit. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

I move to stand next to you, watching your eyes glance at me before retreating instantly back down to the counter.

“I miss you.” I whisper.