Two years.

That’s how long Rafe and I had been wrapped up in each other. Long enough to memorize the scar on his jaw, the way he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel when he drove, the way his voice softened when he said my name. We weren’t perfect — far from it — but we were us. Messy, chaotic, consuming. There were nights he’d hold me so tight, whispering things about forever, and I believed him. God, I believed him.

And then one day, he was gone.

No fight. No goodbye. Just silence. I called, I texted, I begged for something, anything. But he disappeared like he had never existed — leaving me to pick apart every memory, every word, wondering where I went wrong.

Five months passed. Five months of confusion that curdled into anger, then into something hollow.

So when I walked into that party, the last thing I expected was him.

He was leaning against the wall like he’d never vanished, laughing at something the girl beside him said. She was small, delicate — the kind of pretty that looks untouchable, like she belonged in a frame instead of real life. His arm was slung over her shoulders in a way that felt rehearsed, practiced.

I froze. My heart dropped and then clawed its way back up, hammering in my throat.

And then he saw me.

His laughter died instantly. His eyes locked on mine, wide and sharp, like he hadn’t prepared for this moment either. The girl tugged on his sleeve, asking him something, but he didn’t move. He didn’t look at her. He just looked at me.

For a long, unbearable beat, the room felt smaller. The music muffled, the laughter faded, and it was just us — the ghost who had left me, and me, standing there like a wound he’d ripped open again.

I lifted my chin, refusing to look away. If he wanted me to crumble, to shrink into the shadows, he’d be waiting forever.

His jaw clenched. He dropped his arm from around the girl, almost without realizing it.

And in that moment, I knew he hadn’t forgotten me.

Not for a second.