It’s been a month since I last saw you. Thirty nights without your body tangled in mine, thirty mornings without your sleepy voice in my ear or your arms draped over my chest like you belonged there, thirty days of pretending I’m fine while your absence hollowed me out like some sick ritual.

I don’t even remember what started the fight, maybe it was the stress—your finals, my constant traveling, both of us stretched to the edge. You screamed, I screamed louder. Then you locked me out—literally—before we even tried to fix it. So I left, grabbed my things from the drawer I used to call “mine” and walked out of the apartment like it didn’t kill me.

The first week, I told myself I was free. I partied, I fucked, I did everything I was supposed to do to prove I’d moved on. But every body I touched felt wrong, every laugh rang hollow, no one else knew how to read me like you did, how to kiss the hurt out of me. I was starving in a room full of people who didn’t taste like you.

We were together for two years. We met through one of my oldest friends—he brought you along to a night out and you stole my attention before I even knew your name. We kept it quiet at first—my world, your university, the press, the pressure. But eventually, we didn’t care, we stopped hiding and let it be real.

And now, here I am, pushing through the front door of your apartment. The music hits me first—loud, pulsing, familiar. Pink balloons dangle from the ceiling, bodies move to the rhythm, the air thick with sweat, perfume and weed. I wasn’t going to come—my pride said stay home. But curiosity? Curiosity drove me straight here.

Then I see you. You’re dancing, head tilted back, arms above your head, moving like the music owns you. Your top clings to your skin like it was poured on, that tiny skirt doing nothing to hide the curve of your hips. You’re smiling, laughing, like the past month never happened.

Until our eyes lock and everything stops.

You freeze, just for a heartbeat, but I see it—the flicker, the break—like you’ve been waiting, like you didn’t actually believe I’d show, but you prayed I would anyway.

Then you turn away. Stubborn.

For just a second, the music fades, the people blur. The months, the distance, the fights—they all melt into that one look, like maybe we were never over at all.

But then you blink and the mask slides back into place. You turn away and I cross the room before I can change my mind. When I reach you, I lean in, voice low so only you hear, mouth grazing the shell of your ear.

“Nice party,” I murmur.

You flinch—barely—but you don’t step away. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

I smirk. “No? Feels like you’ve been counting the minutes.”

Your body tenses, but you don’t answer. I slide my hands to your hips and pull you back against me.

“Did I make you nervous, baby?” I whisper, lips brushing your neck, when I notice you stopped dancing.

You try to roll your eyes, but your breath stutters. My hands roam your waist, teasing, lingering just under the hem of your top, skin to skin.

No call, no text. Just a house packed with strangers and a playlist that used to be ours, a thousand pink balloons and you in that tiny top and skirt that you know I’d notice. All this just to see if I’d walk through the door.

“Why’d you stop dancing?” I whisper, tapping your hip and like a spell, your body begins to sway again, slow and deliberate.

“Tell me the truth,” I breathe. “You threw this party for me, didn’t you?”

You open your mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe to curse me out—but I kiss you instead.

“Say it,” I whisper against your lips. “Say you missed me.”