My hand skates up your side, traveling like it knows its way. My eyes watch the contact, fingertips brushing against skin, and it’s mesmerizing. Watching goosebumps rise, recognizing the dips and shapes, and knowing which patch is the most sensitive. It’s like second nature, like muscle memory, even after all this time.

And when we move, it’s effortless. Knowing which small adjustments are just right, what tempo we like, and that staring into each others eyes will make every sensation deepen.

Back in 2015 is when we first met. Usually, I disliked having to go to events ran by brands that just wanted press, but I guess I should be thankful for this one time. You were invited after doing promo for your debut album that was somehow already breaking chart records, so of course I knew your name. One Direction had just announced their hiatus, so my name was all in the press too. When we interacted at that event, it felt natural—almost too natural. Like we were best friends in a past life. Conversation flowed and that was the start of it all.

About 3 weeks into hanging out, we were together for the first time. It was a mutually sober decision that changed everything. We were close before, but after that, we became inseparable. It couldn’t have happened at a better time, too. The band was slowing down so I had all my time to spend with you. You even came with me to Jamaica where I started working on my first solo album. It was a dream.

Until it wasn’t.

Two years later, in 2017, the pressures became too much. Media attention and gossip columns wouldn’t let up on us. It was easy when I was out of the spotlight, but as soon as I stepped back in, the vultures were called. We started fighting, purposefully pissing each other off and taking breaks. It wasn’t healthy, so we called it quits. Another mutually sober decision.

And time passed, we moved on. I started seeing someone else, and you wrote an album slandering my name. It was fine. I think I even sent you flowers congratulating you on the release. We grew up and all was well. Maturity, time, and distance was the only thing between us.

Until it wasn’t—again.

Just last month, I was a co-chair of the Met Gala, an honor and privilege. I knew you’d be there. Your name hadn’t left the headlines since the start of your career. But I wasn’t planning on interacting with you, there was no need. Our business was finished and finalized two years ago. But, drunk me had a different plan.

I found your table easily, knowing you’d be invited with Versace since you were practically the face for their brand. I struck up conversation and you initiated the hug, and the familiarity of it made the work I’d done to forget you crumble into ash.

We began talking again, just cordial texts throughout the day and a phone call here and there. We were never in the same city after that night, which seemed like a good thing. But 24 hours ago, you told me you were in London—and so was I. It would’ve been rude to not offer meeting up, right? Just for a casual cup of coffee and maybe a stroll through the park. That’s all it was supposed to be.

The past tense is important, because, clearly, the objective changed.

Somehow, in the bleary daze of the day, the night grew upon us, and we ended up on my street. I invited you in, and you said yes. A mutually sober decision. Though as soon as that door closed behind you, I could’ve sworn I was drunk.

We collided like two magnets that had been separated for years, just begging to connect again. It all happened so fast, but it all felt so right. I brought you up to my room, and even though it’s a completely different house than the one you frequented all those years ago, you still seemed to fit right in.

Exactly how I felt when our guards were piled on the floor and I dove into your world once again. It’s right. I know every inch. I’m certain I could draw you from memory, even after all this time. Like a practiced dance, we know the steps and we know each other.

It feels like where I was supposed to be all along. This, with you, feels like home.