“We’re closed,” the bartender says, his voice firm but not unkind, as Sam remains seated at the bar—alone. A half-finished beer in one hand, his eyes fixed on the glow of his phone in the other. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy, the kind of look that speaks more to heartbreak than alcohol.

He’s scrolling through old photos. Pictures of you—smiling beside him, laughing, holding his hand. Relics from a time when the two of you were something real. Something whole. But those days have long passed. It’s been months since you last spoke, and even longer since things felt right. Sam had ruined what once seemed like the perfect relationship. And though it had felt like it could last forever, some things simply don’t.

Outside, the cold air hits him as he stumbles toward his car, phone still in hand. He finds himself lost again in your profile, this time swiping through newer photos—ones he hadn’t seen before. One of them stops him cold. You’re smiling again, but not alone. There’s a guy beside you. Arm touching yours, too close for comfort. You didn’t mention who he was. Maybe just a friend… he tells himself. Hopes, really.

But if that guy ever hurt you the way he did, Sam swears he’d be there. Watching from afar, waiting in the wings—not as a boyfriend, not anymore—but as some sort of distant protector, silently hoping for your happiness, even if he’s not the one giving it to you.

The night blurs by, and eventually, he ends up outside your apartment, slouched against the doorframe, eyes red-rimmed and wet. He knocks—louder than intended—and before he can talk himself out of it, the door creaks open.

“Sam?” you say, startled, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice cracking. “God, I’m so sorry.” His arms find their way around your waist as he leans in, seeking some kind of solace. “I miss you so much. I’m such a fuck-up. I didn’t know what I had until it was gone.”