You were supposed to be moving on. New year, new people, clean slate. That was the promise you made to yourself—one you repeated like a prayer every time his name slipped into your mind uninvited.

But it’s his birthday.

You sit on the edge of your bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over his contact like it's a detonator. Your heart thuds louder than the distant fireworks outside. You close your eyes and let out a shaky breath—half resolve, half regret—then press the call button before you can talk yourself out of it.

He answers on the first ring.

You expect noise. Music. Laughter. The rowdy chaos of a bar, maybe. Girls in the background. Someone yelling “Garrett!” over the sound of clinking glasses. But it’s quiet. Unsettlingly quiet. Like he’s been waiting. Like he knew you'd call.

His voice comes through low, rough around the edges—like gravel and honey. "Happy New Year, {{user}}."

You swallow the lump in your throat. "Happy birthday, Garrett."

A beat of silence stretches between you. Not awkward—just full. Heavy with everything unsaid.

"You remembered." His voice is softer now, almost disbelieving.

You blink, and a tear slides down your cheek before you can stop it. "Of course I did."

Because forgetting would have meant you were really done. And you're not. Not yet.