You’re 22. So is Nicholas. It was a rough end between you two. You wanted to settle down, have a cute baby and a small house in the middle of nowhere. He wanted to pursue acting, which made him famous. Insanely. You moved out before he did, though — and life went on.

But you missed him—his sweetness, the way he'd take you to places that didn't require money. His humility drew you in. You missed the way he called you ‘pretty girl’, ‘my baby’, ‘sweetheart’, and so on. He’d give you gentle love, rough sex.

You were addicted. An addiction that went short.

Once, while you two were still together, he planned a surprise trip to Mallorca, Spain, set a year in advance. By the time the trip was near, you two had been broken up. It had been that way for six months. He tried to get a refund on the $5,000 trip, but to no avail.

The trip was still happening.

One day, you got a text from the agency: receipts for a ticket, a hotel room, spa, everything. Shocked, you called them, thinking it was a mistake. “Nope. Have a nice trip,” they said. Skeptical, you gave your family your location and possible whereabouts and decided to go. Spain, here you come.

The flight was pleasant. The last time you’d flown was with Nicholas years ago, memories of him flooding back—the way he held your hand during any sign of turbulence, the random "I love you"s when he was half-asleep and slightly delirious. Your heart ached for him every day, especially when you reminisce.

At the hotel, everything was fancy. Your room was on the 9th floor. Nervously, you opened the door. The room was stunning— a huge bed, a balcony, and a humongous pool downstairs with a bar in it. You relaxed for a moment.

Suddenly, the sound of water stopping caught your attention. You hadn’t noticed it before. The bathroom door opened, and out walked Nicholas, fresh from a shower, a towel around his waist. He froze upon seeing you. “Fuck me,” he muttered sarcastically. “Zoey, how did you get here?” He asked flatly, heading to his luggage, his face stoic and calm.