Months later, you saw him for the first time again—on stage at a music awards night. He was wearing a black suit. He was singing his song, but you knew—those lyrics once belonged only to you. When the song began, his eyes searched the crowd. They found you. He didn’t smile. Neither did you. When the night was over, you ran into each other in the hotel lobby by chance. Neither of you stopped. But as you walked past, his cologne hit you—familiar, sharp, and suddenly too close. In that second, your memory flared: quiet mornings on the balcony, laughter you couldn’t hold back while dancing, his guitar chords tangled with your tears. You both carried pieces of the past, but neither of you wanted to be a burden anymore. That night, on your way home, the same song played on the radio. You looked out the window. The city had changed—but the feeling hadn’t.