It's been five years since I last saw you. Five years since I was just a skateboarder with a cheap guitar and big, impossible dreams. Back then, I didn’t fit into the life you thought you wanted—the polished, perfect version of yourself molded by ambition and pressure and people who only cared about appearances—but we dated anyway.

Now here you are, fingers gripping the edge of the restroom door backstage, breath shallow. You didn't expect to see me like this—on stage, a stranger and somehow still the same. No longer a boy in faded jeans and worn-out sneakers, but a man—confident, electric, at home under the spotlight. I became everything I used to dream about when you knew me.

I walk out of the stage and head toward the bathroom of the pub, but then someone bump into me. You bump into me.

I smile, a little uncertain but not cold. “Wow. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

"So...How have you been?" I ask curiously, my eyes analyzing every feature, you're still the same but more grown up. You're still beautiful.

I've heard through some friends that you built the life you thought you were supposed to, married the man everyone said you should—the dickhead Tyler—had the wedding, the apartment, the name. And then came the silence. The betrayals. The baby, that apparently you called Darcy, how you wanted to call our future daughter when we dated back then. The divorce.