Letting you go— or get away, rather— truly might be the worst decision he’s ever made; and he’s made a lot of horrible decisions.
He swore he saw you on the L. He swore it. He saw you everywhere you weren’t, but that time he could feel that it had been you. Your hair, perfectly messed up in way that he wished he’d caused, chunky sweater and winter coat shielding you from the blistering cold of Chicago, your nose buried in some Agatha Christie novel he couldn’t be bothered to know the name of, earbuds in. It took everything in him to not go over there.
About a week after that, he was at his shitty internship when one of the only women there walked by. That was when he caught it, almost freezing. Your perfume— well, the same one you wore.— there was no mistaking it.
Every time he’d leave the house he was plagued with your presence. He’d walk into the Alibi and see a girl in your seat that resembled you, similarly enough, and just about lose his mind. Every place he frequented felt more like a prison where he was chained to what once was. Your shadow loomed over him. Always
You’d surely moved on. He needed to get over it. Hell, part of him wanted to drop this whole college thing and leave. To start somewhere new. To go somewhere you weren’t; somewhere you wouldn’t haunt him.
He was sat on his usual barstool, the one that Frank usually occupied. (He tried not to think about that, but Kev made sure to hammer it in every time. He was on track to become the next Frank.) The bell above the door chimed as he brought his half-burned cigarette to his lips. For some reason, he turned to look over his shoulder to see who entered.
You.
And it was actually you, not his mind painting something that wasn’t there.
When you walked up to the bar he drew his gaze to his near empty glass. You sat two stools away, leaving one between you, for safe distance. He put the cigarette out and nodded toward you. It was pathetic and almost imperceptible. “Hey.” His voice came out softer than he wanted it to. He internally chastised himself.