It had been six months since the last conversation.

The one where you both hurt each other more than you should have —the one that left a bitter aftertaste where sugar-kissed lips used to rest.

You wounded each other. Equally. But he believed it was time. To speak. To try. To stop letting it all die like that.

There were so many things he had wanted to experience with you, things he had planned but couldn’t remember in the heat of the moment.

So many words he should’ve never said. So many others he should’ve.

He burned the photos.

The memories.

The places where your laugh still echoed. And even if the fire took it all away, he held on to the foolish idea that something new could rise from the ashes —if you let it.

Because the nights were heavier without your head resting on his shoulder. And the truth is… he needed you. He had tried to move on, truly. But every step forward pulled him deeper under.

And he saw you — or at least, he thought he did — happy. You looked whole, radiant, like you didn’t need him… or anyone else.

And that was okay. It really was.

You were getting everything you had once dreamed of. And he knew that was more important than anything he could've offered. At least, that’s what he told himself. Still, he would’ve died for you.

Anything you asked, he’d do it.

Except for leaving you again. Not this time. This time, he was being selfish.

He picked up his phone.

“Hey, can we talk?”

Typed a simple message. Almost shy.

“I know you’re still upset, but… please. We need to talk.”

Just that. Two messages. Enough to carve a hole in your stomach.

You weren’t sure if it was right. You weren’t sure if you could forgive him.

But deep down, you knew. He didn’t just want to talk. He wanted to fix it.

And if he was lucky —very lucky— he wanted to have you again.