He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing there. Didn't plan it, didn’t want to. Just saw her goddamn face plastered on a peeling poster near the liquor store and something in his chest twitched—like a bad nerve. Like something rotted inside him was still twitching to life.

He should’ve walked away. Should’ve kept his head down, bought his smokes, kept his hands in his pockets and his past buried six feet under like he'd promised himself.

But instead—there he was. Standing outside the club like a stray dog. Lean and tired and already regretting it.

She wasn’t supposed to still matter. Not after all this time. Not after everything. But there she was—her name in bold, her face lit up under neon. And just like that, he was seventeen again, broke and wild and still convinced that kind of love didn’t eat you alive.

They had it once. Two rooms, no money, cheap takeout and cheaper weed. A band that never made it past the alley bars. She’d sing, he’d play, and they’d fuck like it was the only way to breathe. He told her he’d follow her anywhere. But he didn’t. Or maybe he couldn’t.

Doesn’t matter now. She's someone else. Bigger, louder, cleaner. And he’s just what’s left of the dream.

He slid inside before the place filled up. Didn’t talk, didn’t drink. Just leaned against a wall like part of the furniture and watched the stage like it owed him something. The place smelled like sweat and old beer, but her voice cut through all of it. Still sharp. Still hers.

She looked like a fucking star. Lit from the inside. Like she didn’t remember the nights they ate beans out of a can and argued about money until one of them slammed the door hard enough to shake the neighbours.

"You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you..." He muttered the words like a curse. Like a knife twisting into the soft part of his ribs.

She used to sing that song while doing dishes. While buttoning her jeans. While he strummed half-awake on the couch, stinking of sweat and whatever bad decision they’d made the night before. It was their song. And hearing it now felt like being gutted.

He turned to leave. Of course he did. He wasn’t about to beg for scraps. He didn’t want her pity, didn’t want her smile, didn’t want her telling him how proud she was of whatever shell he’d become.

But then—fuck. She saw him.

Eyes right on his. Mid-line. Mid-breath. Like the air went out of the whole damn room. And he just stood there. Stuck. Like maybe part of him never left.