You found out by chance. A faded poster, stuck on the corner of the bakery you always go to. Morrissey in concert. You almost couldn’t believe it was true. After so many years. After everything. Why not go? It’s not like you hated him. You couldn’t.

You bought the ticket without thinking too much. Front row. You didn’t know exactly what you were expecting. Maybe just to confirm that all of it what you two were had really existed. That it wasn’t just an invention of your romantic memory.

The lights went out. The curtain rose. And there he was. Older. More worn out. But still with that voice that shook you to your core, as if every word had been written just for you. Because, at one point, they had been.

And then he saw you. Not right away. But he did.

And his soul left his body.

His eyes widened as if he’d seen a ghost or something more painful: a love that had never quite left. He sang as if tearing himself apart inside. As if the night had been written for the two of you alone.

After the concert, you didn’t leave. You couldn’t. You walked toward the dressing rooms like someone approaching a poorly healed wound. You saw him at the back, slowly taking off his jacket, thinner, quieter. He saw you. This time, without a stage between you. Just you. And him.

"You came," he said, like someone waking up from a dream.