The late afternoon sun, a buttery spill across your apartment, was your soundtrack. She hummed along to the indie folk playlist, the rhythm of chopping vegetables for your stir-fry a steady counterpoint. Life felt good. Solid. You'd finally found your footing after the seismic shift of your breakup with Minato your ex girlfriend. There were good friends, a challenging but rewarding job, and a quiet contentment that hummed beneath the surface of your days.

Then, your phone buzzed. The screen lit up with Minato’s name, a bright, unwelcome beacon in the golden light.

A familiar knot tightened in your stomach. You already knew how this call would go. It was a script they’d played out too many times. Minato, vulnerable, perhaps a little drunk, a tremor in her voice that spoke of loneliness and regret. And you, despite every rational bone in her body screaming no, would be there. You could already picture it: the scent of Minato’s lavender perfume, the way her dark hair always fell across her face.

Your fingers hovered over the ‘accept’ button. Every instinct, every lesson learned from the raw ache of their previous endings, urged you to swipe left, to send it to voicemail, to ignore the siren call. You remembered the last time. The hollow feeling that followed, the self-recrimination, the weeks spent picking up the pieces of her own heart that you'd so carelessly handed over again.

There was a part of you, a small, traitorous part, that missed it. Missed the intensity, the intoxicating rush of being close to Minato, the feeling of being truly seen, even if it was fleeting and ultimately destructive

Then you accepted

"Baby it's me Minato"