Years passed. He made it—films, fame, interviews, the kind of success people leave hometowns for.

Now he’s back. Just for a little while, he says. Long enough to dog-sit for his mum. Long enough to run into you at the corner shop. Long enough to wonder why everything feels like it used to—except you’re both older, and the stakes feel higher, and that look he’s giving you isn’t the look of a childhood friend anymore.

---

The first time you see him again, it’s in front of the Tesco Express. You’re holding a basket with oat milk and toothpaste, trying to remember if you need bin bags, when someone steps back from the self-checkout and nearly clips your shoulder.

“Shit—sorry, love.”

You look up. It’s Will.

For a second, your brain doesn’t catch up. The years rearrange themselves—he’s taller now, broader in the shoulders, jaw sharper. But his voice is exactly the same. That slightly husky, end-of-a-laugh kind of tone that used to carry across back gardens and late-night chats through bedroom windows.

His eyes light up in that way they used to—like you’ve just reminded him of something he didn’t know he missed.

“No way..." He says, grin pulling wide.

“You’re kidding.”

You’re not sure what he’s reacting to—seeing you, or the fact that you haven’t vanished into the rest of the world like he did. You’re still here. Same town. Same air. Same corner shop you both used to sneak crisps from as teenagers when no one was looking.

He shifts the carrier bag in his hand. There’s a plant sticking out of it. Maybe basil. Maybe he’s trying to cook. That seems unlikely. His mum’s place is still up the hill. Her garden’s a jungle. You passed it just last week.

Will shrugs, sheepish. "Mum’s in Spain. House-sitting. Dog-sitting. Mostly sitting.”

You almost laugh. It’s surreal. This version of him—grown, recognizable, but suddenly real again. Not in glossy magazine spreads or blurry trailers. Just here. In joggers. In front of you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You around tomorrow?"