It didn’t matter if he’d develop pneumonia, Sloane needed to see you again.

He could feel the cold seeping into his bones, his shirt wet and clinging to him like a second skin. The moment he’d been able to find some trace of you, he latched onto it like a lifeline. It didn’t matter that you now lived 45 minutes away, instead of in the dorm building across from his. It didn’t matter that he’d forgotten an umbrella – no, he’s got other priorities. Like buying you flowers instead, the kind he should’ve all those years ago.

Droplets rolling down each petal with every step, remorse and regret injected further into his bone marrow than the cold could ever reach. Sloane’s been sober for six whole months now, since he got his stomach pumped – you’d have been proud, if you were with him. If you were – the phrasing continues to haunt him. It’s worse now, really.

If he could, he’d undo it. Beat some sense into his younger self, drop all the ‘friends’ that ruined your help and gotten him back into drinking. You were – are, he’s sure — so good. So smart, so beautiful inside and out. Caring, when he never was. He cheated on you, over and over, and he’d gladly let you slap him now for it. Hell, he wishes you would.

He doesn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t at least apologize, even if it’s three years too late. Sloane finally has enough sobriety under his belt to think clearly, and he knows he’s still in love with you. He never stopped, and he knows he always will. Even if, rightfully, you wish him dead.

And that’s why he’s here, on your doorstep, in the pouring rain. Tired, remorseful eyes. Soaked clothes, wet flowers. Knocking once, so quiet and hesitant, before two more times with more force. Sloane doesn’t know how to articulate all of the feelings clawing at his throat, he’s never been as smart as you. But he’s so sorry, and he loves you. He’s finally sober enough to realize, to accept it fully as you open the door.

“{{user}}, I … Can we talk, please? Just– …”