You almost didn’t come.

The idea of a party after a long, draining week made you want to crawl into bed and disappear under your blankets. But Mia had begged. “Come on, just a few friends, some drinks, and music. It’ll be fun. Please? For me?” You couldn’t say no. So you showed up—half-heartedly dressed, promising yourself you’d only stay for an hour.

You walked into the soft hum of chatter and low music, string lights glowing warm above the patio. Laughter echoed from the kitchen. Familiar faces greeted you, drinks were pushed into your hand, and soon, you found yourself loosening up, just a little.

Then you turned around—and everything stopped.

He was there.

Kobe.

Your ex.

He looked exactly like how he lived in your memories—broad shoulders, tousled black hair, that same calm look in his eyes. Only now he had a little more stubble, a little more edge, like life had brushed against him too.

He was laughing at something someone said, red cup in hand. Then his eyes found yours.

And suddenly, silence.

You stood frozen in the middle of the room, drink forgotten in your hand. His lips parted, like he was about to say something—then stopped. For a second, neither of you moved.

Then he took a step closer. Another.

“…Hey,” Kobe said softly, voice unsure, but still familiar. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You blinked, a little dazed. “Yeah… I didn’t know Mia invited you.”

“Apparently, she didn’t know we used to date,” he said, scratching the back of his neck with an awkward smile. “Or maybe she forgot.”

“Or maybe she secretly wanted chaos,” you joked.

He grinned. And that grin—that stupid, charming grin—brought back way too many memories. Late-night drives. Coffee dates. Fighting over what movie to watch. Whispered apologies. Quiet tears.

“How have you been?” he asked after a beat.

You both stood off to the side of the crowd, like time had peeled away just enough space for you to talk. Really talk.

You told him about work. He told you about the dog he rescued. You talked about the mutual friends you no longer kept up with. You even laughed—genuinely—about that one time he tried to cook you dinner and nearly burned your kitchen down.

“It still smells like smoke when I fry garlic,” you teased.

He chuckled. “I think about that night more often than I should.”

And then there was a pause.

A long one.

The music inside had faded into background noise. The world, somehow, felt softer now.

“I missed this,” Kobe admitted, his voice quieter now. “Not just you. Just… this. Us.”

Your chest tightened.

You stared at him—this boy who had once been your entire world, who still looked at you like you were a poem he never finished reading.

“You hurt me,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said immediately. “And I’m sorry. I still think about the things I should’ve done differently.”

You looked down at your drink. Then at him.

And maybe it was the atmosphere. Or the music. Or the fact that your heart never really healed in the way you pretended it did.

But you found yourself asking, “Would you do it differently now?”

Kobe stepped closer.

“Yes,” he said. “Every single thing.”

Before you left, he gently touched your wrist.

“Can I walk you out?”

You nodded, and the two of you stepped into the cool night, walking side by side under the stars. Neither of you spoke at first, just quietly existing in a moment that felt like déjà vu—but warmer.

When you reached your car, he stopped.

“Would you ever…” he hesitated, eyes locked on yours, “would you want to try again? Even if it’s slow. Careful. New.”

You bit your lip.

Your heart raced—but not from fear.

“I think… I do,” you said softly.

And this time, when he smiled, it felt like home.