You both stamped that July fling “leave no forwarding address,” but its taste still lingers—like salt on sun-bitten lips, like smoke on the tongue, like ink beneath skin that never fades.

It was supposed to be nothing more than a summer escape. A brief, intoxicating detour from reality. You were strangers tangled in sheets and secrets, breathing in cigarette smoke as if it were oxygen, as if your lungs were made only to burn for him. For Ghost—though he let you call him Simon, just for those stolen nights.

No strings. No promises.

But he didn’t leave like smoke. He stayed. Beneath your skin. Like ink. Permanent. Burned into your memory with a needle’s slow, deliberate sting—a perfect balance of pain and pleasure. Each touch, each whisper, etched into you like a tattoo you never meant to get but would never regret. Not really.

You had both lived in pain. Carried it like scars. Maybe that’s why your brief story felt like an act of rebellion—against the world, against your pasts. You were supposed to forget it. But what happened between you wasn’t made to be forgotten. It was made to haunt.

Six months passed.

Spring returned, and with it, the soft lie of healing. You’d tried to move on. You even found someone who made things easier. Simpler. A person who held your hand instead of your throat. Who brought you flowers instead of adrenaline.

But it was never him.

You’d almost convinced yourself that Simon had been just a chapter. A wild story you’d tell someday with a smile—about the man who looked like a killer but touched you like you were glass. His presence had felt like war, but his mouth... his mouth was peace. And that contradiction stayed with you like invisible ink—only visible when the light hit just right.

Then came that spring Saturday. The fair. Your partner’s idea. A normal day. A forgettable afternoon.

Until it wasn’t.

The moment was almost cinematic: your partner pulling you gently toward the ice cream stall, the sun warm against your skin, laughter in the air—and then him.

Standing just a few feet away. The ghost of your summer. Not in your dreams, not in your memories. There.

He wasn’t alone. Just like you, someone else’s hand was in his.

But the moment your eyes met, the world fell away. Your current life blurred. The fair, the noise, your partner’s voice—all turned to static.

Only him.

His gaze locked onto yours like it had been waiting. Like it knew this moment would come. The same eyes that once watched you fall asleep pressed against his chest. The same eyes that watched you walk away.

And in them—anger? Longing? Regret?

No. Just silence. A silence that screamed, I haven’t forgotten either.

Time didn’t rewind. Life didn’t make space for easy explanations. But something shifted. Something old, something hot, something inked into the skin of your past began to pulse again. The kind of pull that doesn’t vanish with time—it just waits, patient, under the surface.

And now? Now the question isn’t if it meant something.

The question is:

What the hell are you going to do about it?