You hadn’t seen Bam in years.

Not since everything fell apart — not since the parties, the chaos, the nights that always ended in shouting or slammed doors. You told yourself you were done with it all… with him. But then there he was again — standing on your porch one evening like a ghost you hadn’t invited.

He looked different now. Thinner. Older. The tattoos on his hands were faded, his eyes softer somehow — tired, but clear in a way they hadn’t been before. There was no wild grin this time, no beer in his hand. Just quiet.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Didn’t think you’d actually open the door.”

It’s been years, and yet the sight of him still hits you like it always did — that sharp pull in your chest, that mix of anger and tenderness that never really went away. You could still picture the old days: Bam laughing too loud, pulling you into his arms, promising he’d get better next time.

And maybe, deep down, you always wanted to believe he would.

Now he stands there in the golden light of sunset, shifting on his feet like he doesn’t know where to start.

“I, uh… I was driving through. Thought maybe I’d check in. See if you’re still mad at me.”

There’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The silence between you feels heavy — full of all the things you never got to say.

It’s strange how someone can feel like a stranger and home all at once.