The studio looked smaller now. Dust clung to the corners, vines creeping through the cracked window where sunlight barely spilled in. It smelled like time had passed—like forgotten music, dried paint, and the quiet weight of memories. Reggie stood in the doorway, transparent and hesitant, heart echoing in silence, even though it hadn’t beat in years.

He hadn't meant to come.

After the way things ended—shouted words, hands clenched into fists, her tears barely hidden behind fury—he thought she’d erased him. Moved on. He died thinking she hated him.

Maybe she did. Maybe she still did.

But ghosts didn’t forget. Not the warmth of her fingers when they brushed his bass strings. Not the way she looked at him like he was a song she never wanted to end. Not the way she stopped looking at all.

He walked across the room like a breath caught in time. Everything was older. The posters were curling at the edges. The couch where they used to collapse in laughter was stained with years. Her keyboard sat untouched, the keys silent and stiff with dust. The ghost of a melody lingered in the air—one they never finished writing. He reached out, not to touch, just to feel close to something again.

The door creaked.

She stepped in like a heartbeat, and the air shifted. Twenty-two now. Taller. Stronger. Her shoulders carried more than they used to. But her eyes… her eyes hadn’t changed. He couldn’t breathe, but if he could, she would’ve stolen it.

She moved through the space carefully, like she didn’t trust it to hold. Then her gaze faltered—just slightly—toward the corner where he stood.

It was a flicker. A pause. But it felt like the world holding its breath.

Something inside him broke open. Not pain. Not regret. Something older than both—something that had waited four years in the quiet. Longing. Love. The impossible ache of watching the future happen without you.