It was late — too late — and Hughie should’ve been asleep.

Instead, he was lying on his back on his bed, one sock on, one sock off, listening to the wind rattle his window and pretending he didn’t keep checking his phone even though no one ever texted him this time of night anymore.

Not since her.

The screen lit up.

Unknown number, but he knew who it was before he even opened it. There were only a few people in the world who could send a message that made his heart lurch like that.

It was just one line.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.” — Fleetwood Mac

He stared. Read it again.

And again.

His chest went tight. His throat did that stupid thing where it wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He sat up, heart hammering, thumb hovering over the screen like it might burn him if he pressed too fast.

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t a joke.

It was her. Still her. Always her.

The same girl who used to kiss the inside of his wrist when he was spiraling. Who’d told him, “I need to figure out how to love myself before I can love you right.” Who walked away from him even though he knew it shattered her, too.

She’d meant it. He knew that. Knew it wasn’t about not loving him — that was the cruelest part.

And now this lyric.

A quiet reminder. A ghost in his inbox.

He didn’t know what to say. What could you say to someone who still haunted your favorite songs?

He put the phone face-down on his chest and let his eyes close, her voice whispering through the chorus of his thoughts, just like always.

She might’ve left.

But she was still everywhere.