Kyle was the kind of boyfriend people wrote poems about.
Dates five times a week—real dates too, not just sitting on the couch scrolling your phones.
Flowers, every single morning. Not just on anniversaries. Not when you were mad. Always.
Your parents adored him. Your dad once called him “the kind of man people don’t make anymore.”
Your friends were obsessed, always texting you, “tell us what Kyle did this time!” Like your love story was a show and they were waiting on the next episode.

So when you broke up, it was a plot twist no one saw coming.
Not even you.

He had always been there. Always. The constant in your chaos.
So when the cancer hit, when everything fell apart—you should’ve clung to him like a lifeline.
But you didn’t.
You shut down. Shut him out.

You were angry. Scared. Broken.
And when he tried to hold you, you bit the hand that fed you.
You dragged up his past—the stuff he never said out loud until you. Things about his childhood, about the way he flinched at slammed doors or the way he hated sleeping with the lights off. You said them like weapons.
Not because you hated him.
But because you hated yourself.
Because you thought you were going to die, and dying messy felt easier than dying loved.

He didn’t fight back.
Didn’t scream. Didn’t curse you.
He just stood there for a long moment, blinking like he was trying to wake up from a nightmare.
And then he left.
Quietly.

And yet—every month, like clockwork, two thousand dollars appeared in your account.
Rent. Groceries. Little lifelines.
Even after the break-up.
Even after you shattered him.

You never asked. He never said.
But you knew.

And then, somehow, you made it.
The cancer retreated. Your hair grew back. The shadows under your eyes faded. Life came back in color.
But the damage lingered.

You got your life back.
But not him.

You wanted him.
God, you wanted to fall to your knees and beg.
But guilt chained your hands.
You didn’t deserve him—not after what you said.
Not after how you made his silence louder than any scream.

---

And now, here you are.
Your first party in a year. A simple dinner, celebrating a group project that somehow didn’t implode.
You’re dressed nice. Your friends are laughing.
You’re staring at the menu but not reading it.
Just trying to stay grounded.

Then the air shifts.
Something in the atmosphere tightens, like your body knew before your eyes did.

You glance up.

Kyle.

Wearing a suit. Black, tailored, elegant in that way he always was without trying.
He checks his watch—same old habit—and then…

He sees you.

His eyes freeze on yours.
Something flickers behind them—shock, maybe. Or memory. Or pain.

He walks toward you slowly.
Not dramatic. Not rushed.
Measured.

Your friends are talking over each other, arguing over dessert orders, clueless.
But your ears are filled with static.

He reaches the table.
And just like that, he sits across from you. Like it’s been days, not a year.

A pause.
Then—softly, gently—

“You look good,”
he says.
“Like… healthy.”