she hadn’t seen him in five years, but she knew the second he walked in. not because he was famous now — no, that part was just annoying. it was the way the air changed. how the room tilted for a second like it remembered, too.

drew starkey. in a tux. at his brother’s wedding. the same brother who used to call her “sis” when she and drew were still a thing — back when dorm rooms smelled like weed and cheap bourbon, and love was the only thing they had that felt expensive.

now she was behind the bar. twisting lemon peels. wiping down sticky glasses. pretending not to notice the way his eyes kept finding her like they hadn’t already done enough damage.

five years ago, he looked her dead in the face and said, “i can’t be tied down.” five years ago, he packed up a duffel bag and left her standing in their shitty off-campus kitchen with two mugs of coffee and a future she thought they were building.

he booked a gig. a big one. the kind that gets you an agent, a trailer, and a new phone number. he didn’t even say goodbye the right way. just that one line — selfish and clean: “i can’t be tied down.”

she didn’t chase him. didn’t post about him. didn’t even cry the way people thought she would.

she just… stopped.

and now he was here. laughing like nothing happened. like she wasn’t the girl who once memorized the shape of his hands. he ordered a bourbon. neat. because of course he did.

he said her name once, soft. she didn’t look up.

later, someone’s drunk aunt asked her if she was single. she laughed. “too single.” drew heard that one. she saw the way his jaw clenched.

good.

the night dragged. the music got louder. tipsy bridesmaids cried about their exes. she stayed busy, beautiful, and indifferent.

but when the party started to wind down — right around the time the groom passed out in a corner and the bride’s hair was falling out of its pins — drew slipped the final tab across the counter.

tucked under the receipt was a note. the handwriting was familiar. lazy and sharp. like it was still 2018.

“i never stopped loving you.”

she stared at it. then folded it clean, slow.

walked around the bar. found him standing by the terrace doors, looking out at the lake like it might forgive him.

she handed the note back. didn’t say anything for a second. just watched the way he looked at her like he was still twenty-one and she hadn’t learned how to live without him.

then, quietly, like it didn’t cost her anything anymore:

“shame. i stopped.”

and she turned around. no dramatic exits. no shaky voice. just the sound of her heels against the tile and the heavy silence of a man realizing too late that this version of her wouldn’t beg.

the bartender. at his brother’s wedding. the girl he left when things got good. and now she was the only thing he couldn’t have again.

⸻

follow me on tiktok @ tvdu4lifee