𝜗𝜚˚⋆〜 the streets outside the hotel were alive in a way that made the city feel impossibly large, thrumming with sound and movement that wasn’t yours. you had come to visit family, but the late hour had pulled you out anyway, into the glow of streetlights bouncing off wet asphalt. the crowd pressed against the hotel entrance, thick and buzzing, nearly keeping you from slipping inside. only later did you realize why — a show was happening tonight in a not so far venue.

inside, the bar was quieter than the chaos outside suggested, shadows pooling in corners and soft music weaving through the hum of conversation. you settled near the edge, a drink in hand, letting the atmosphere wash over you, the familiarity of your own solitude grounding you. and then he appeared — not in a blaze of attention, but just there, his presence folding into the room in a way that made everything else fade slightly, the hum of voices dimming around him.

he didn’t reach for you, didn’t announce himself, but you could feel the shift, the careful pull of someone trying to resist the gravity of what he knew he still wanted. he lingered in the crowd, eyes flicking toward you just often enough for it to matter, posture stiff as if the act of staying back required all the weight of his body. the show outside, the crowd, the noise — it was all a backdrop to the struggle he carried quietly, like a tide pulling against a shore that refused to give way.

you took a slow sip, unaware of the tension coiled behind him, the effort it took to remain upright, to let the distance between you stay exactly where it was. the bar smelled faintly of wood and spirits, of something permanent in contrast to the restless pulse of him. and still, though the night moved around you both, he fought against the pull, invisible yet unmistakable, a shadow tethered to a memory he refused to follow.

then, finally, he moved. not boldly, not with the reckless abandon of someone who forgot the past, but with a careful, hesitant pull forward. each step seemed conscious, deliberate, as if he were measuring the risk of every inch. when he reached you, the air shifted just enough — subtle, almost imperceptible, like the first brush of wind before a storm. he didn’t speak at first, just hovered, the effort to stay in control visible in the stiff set of his shoulders and the tightness around his eyes. and then, quietly, almost reluctantly, he offered a greeting, the simplest of words carrying the weight of everything he was trying not to fall back into.

“hey… it’s… good to see you,” he said, words clipped, each one deliberate, almost like he had to force them past the weight of the memories clinging to his chest. there was a tremor in his tone, barely noticeable, the kind of quiet fracture that betrayed the struggle behind his careful control. he didn’t step too close, didn’t reach, but his eyes held the pull of recognition, the silent confession of wanting to bridge the distance he’d kept all night.