You spotted him before he spotted you.

Not unusual. Winnie was always lost in his own storm cloud of thoughts — headphones half-dangling, scarf barely wrapped, hands shoved into pockets like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not after what happened with Augustine. Not after the interview. Not after the fights.

But there he was — leaning against the boarded-up skate shop where you used to wait for Augustine after late practices, where Winnie used to sneak out back and kiss you like he wasn’t already breaking the rules.

He looked up.

Froze.

And for a second — just a second — something flickered in his face. Not surprise.

Guilt.

But then he covered it like he always did, with that crooked half-smile and that easy tilt of the head like he hadn't disappeared from your texts for a week and a half straight.

“Didn’t think you still walked down this street.”

His voice was smooth. Careful. Like he was testing the temperature of ice that might crack beneath him.

The wind pushed between you like a third person. Bitter. Familiar.

He didn’t ask how you were.

Didn’t explain why he ghosted you after the late-night messages, the promises, the near-kisses behind Augustine’s back.

He just stood there, like the weight of his absence wasn’t already clawing at your ribs.

“…You look good.”

It wasn’t a compliment.

It was a deflection.

He glanced away, down the empty street, jaw clenched.

“This street feels smaller than it used to.”

He didn’t mean the street.

You said nothing. Not a word.

Winnie shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like maybe he wanted to say something else. Something real.

But the moment passed.

He adjusted his scarf. Turned slightly.

“Guess I’ll see you around.”