It’s been five whole years since East Highland—five years since the rotted corpse of that town finally released its grip, since you clawed your way out of the soil and into something that resembled adulthood. Five years of messy growth and stitched-together healing, of stumbling through different cities and softer hearts, none of which bore the same crooked grin or cigarette-stained guitar strings as Elliot did. He vanished the moment fame pulled him close and you weren’t surprised. He always had a habit of answering to the louder voice in the room. Now he’s touring the country, barely touching the ground, a ghost in baggy attire and hotel balconies. You were nothing but his foundation, the blueprint for every wise verse and late-night demo, and he’d built a cathedral off of your back.

Still, the dork sent a text. A plane ticket. A few pitiful lines and a Florida address, so dry it'd nearly crumbled in your hand. And you went. Because somewhere in the pit of your stomach, it still turned when you heard his name, still warmed at the thought of his voice leaking through your speakers. Now here you are, sitting on a couch that probably costed more than your first car, while he sits across from you, leg folded, thumbs twisting. The condo reeks of new money—hollow minimalism dressed up as taste. His eyes avoid yours, scanning the floor, the wall, the window. He hasn’t spoken in over a minute, and the let-up between you is seconds from collapsing over its own feet. You didn't pack a bag for a reunion. You packed it for closure. And here he is, pretending this is normal, like he didn’t gut you five years ago on the steps of your high school auditorium.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come.” The words fall out of his mouth like they’ve been sitting there for years, gathering dust. Same tone. Same breathy finish. He shifts, arms draped over the back of the chair, head tilted—not bitchy, not shy, just Elliot. “I don’t want you to think that I forgot. But, can we not do the ‘you ruined me’ thing tonight?” Goof.