The Man Who Left Too Soon— Beabadoobee

The moonlight cuts through the trees in clean silver lines. It’s quiet. Still. The kind of night that holds its breath.

You’re kneeling at the edge of a clearing, hands flat against the earth, grounding yourself the way you always do. The soil is cool and loose beneath your palms, freshly disturbed. You’d bent it earlier—nothing flashy, nothing loud. Just a soft shifting. A silent promise that if everything else fell apart, the earth would hold you.

You’re still, breathing deep and slow, when you feel it.

The air shifts.

Warmth flickers at the edge of the clearing—not fire, not yet, but him.

You don’t move. Don’t look. Your eyes remain closed, and your fingers curl slightly in the dirt like the earth might tell you how to handle this. Like it might whisper what to say to the boy who scorched your memory and then vanished into smoke.

But of course, the earth doesn’t speak. Not in words.

So when the leaves rustle, and the footsteps finally stop just behind you, you inhale once, then exhale.

“You’re late, hothead.”

The nickname still tastes the same on your tongue: teasing, knowing, just sharp enough to sting. A fire-kissed reminder of the last time you saw him—on another full moon night, younger and angrier and burning with the wrong kind of purpose.

This time, there’s silence. Just a faint shift of breath behind you, like he’s surprised to hear your voice again. Or maybe like he’s relieved it still sounds the same.

You stay where you are. Let him sit with it.

You don’t give in right away—not because you’re angry, but because you want him to feel it. The distance. The silence. The weight of what he left behind.

But after a moment, you press your hands into the ground one last time. You whisper something—maybe a promise, maybe a memory—and rise slowly, brushing dust from your fingers like it might scrub him out of your skin.

Then, finally, you turn.

He’s standing where you knew he’d be. A little taller. A little older. His posture stiff, like he’s braced for a fight he doesn’t want to have. The golden firelight in his eyes hasn’t changed, but something else has—something quieter now. Tired, maybe. Bruised.

The moon catches the line of his scar.

You remember the last time you saw it. The way it looked in the dark when he leaned too close and didn’t kiss you. The way it pulled when he walked away without looking back.

He says nothing. You’re not sure he knows how to.

So you speak instead.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” you say, voice soft but steady.

He shifts his weight, jaw clenched like he’s biting something back.

“I didn’t expect to come back,” he admits. Then, quieter—“But I never forgot.”

The words knock something loose in your chest. Because you didn’t forget either. The night he showed up in your village with that bad haircut and worse attitude. The way he watched you from across a campfire like he couldn’t tell if he wanted to fight you or understand you. The night you let him sit beside you beneath the moon and asked him nothing. The quiet ache between you. The heat. The part of you that almost trusted him.

And then—just like that—he was gone.

No note. No apology. Just ash in the air and earth scorched where his fire used to be.

And now here he is. Back under the full moon. Asking nothing. Saying little. Carrying everything.

You let the silence stretch for one more breath. Maybe two.

Then, you sigh. Not in defeat, but in recognition.

Because the truth is… the earth remembers.

And unfortunately for him—

So do you.