The rain had been coming down for twenty minutes now, soaking through your jacket like it held a grudge. You stood at the edge of the party—half-lit windows casting silhouettes of people who wouldn’t remember tonight. Laughter inside. Silence in your head.

“You sure you’re not coming back in?” Jamie’s voice came from behind, muffled by rain and memory.

You didn’t turn. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“You’ve been out here a while.”

“I know.”

He lingered. You felt the weight of him not knowing what to say. “You’re wasting your night.”

You glanced back at him. “Then go back in. Join the rest.”

His jaw shifted. You knew that twitch—Jamie wanted to say more but didn’t. “Always like this with you,” he muttered.

That made you laugh—cold and bitter. “You’re the one who told me not to cause a scene. Guess silence is easier for you.”

He didn’t follow when you stepped off the patio. Didn’t stop you. And maybe that hurt more than anything he could’ve said.

You walked the streets like a ghost, shoes soaked, jacket clinging to your skin. That party felt like every other: too loud, too fake. And Jamie? Jamie was different when people were watching. You weren’t.

You remembered the late nights—brushed knees, glances across the pitch, the almosts in locker rooms. But always, silence. Always, Jamie laughing it off.

You’d been slipping out of everything lately—group chats, post-match drinks, plans you had no energy to keep. No one called you out. Not even Jamie. Especially not Jamie.

Your phone buzzed.

Jamie: 'You okay?'

You stared at it, rain dripping off your brow. A single message. Safe distance. Always.