You can still hear him, even now, in the way the city won't quiet down.

Daniel's voice was always too much. Filling space, circling, backtracking, chasing his own stories. He never knew how to stop. And you never knew how to cut him off, so you let him speak until morning light cracked across Chicago.

He'd lean in close when he talked, dark hair falling in his eyes, jacket collar pulled up like it could hide the nervous twitch of his mouth. He never did look put together. Scuffed sneakers, wrinkled shirt picked off the floor, posture slouched like he didn't realize how tall he was. He always ordered decaf coffee. Who even does that? But you memorized all of it anyway: the way his face twisted when he laughed, too sharp to be handsome; the strangled sound he made when he sneezed; how he rubbed his eyes when sweat stung them, even in winter.

That night outside a late-night bookstore in Wicker Park, when the snow had just started falling. He'd asked if you had a light, even though he didn't smoke. Just to talk to you. His name tumbled out too fast—Daniel Rourke—and when you didn't answer right away, he kept talking. Circling, stumbling over jokes that didn't land. You almost walked away. But he chased you down the block, breath fogging in the cold, blurting out that he wasn't usually this awkward.

Nothing about him was polished. He was shy in a useless way, then overconfident in bursts, smirking when he lied like it didn't matter if you caught him. He wasn't clever, not in the way that lasts. And yet he stuck. He filled up the quiet spaces you didn't know were empty. Was it his chatter?

He worked at an architectural firm near the Loop, though he hated talking about it. Said it felt like coloring inside someone else's lines. Sometimes, you'd catch him sketching on napkins at cafés: sprawling bridges, crooked towers, daydreams of a skyline that might never exist. When he spoke about buildings, his voice steadied, rich and certain, like it was the one place he belonged.

Friends kept asking what the deal was. Just a way to kill time, you'd say. The lies came easy—that Daniel was just a placeholder, that you weren't serious. You laughed about it, made excuses, told yourself you were above it. But still, the calls got answered. You stayed when you should have left.

Now, crossing the bridge, you tell yourself you don't want to see him again. That you've catalogued everything that irritated you. The endless jokes, the bad timing, the way he filled silence with nonsense. But the truth is, silence hurts more.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, spinning light across the inside of your coat. Maybe it's him. Could be anyone. You don't look. If it's goodbye, you want to forget it. But what if it's the one thing you've been waiting for?

Don't leave. You can't even whisper it.

The water is dark tonight, the lake stretching out like a void, city lights caught on its surface, failing to reach you. You wonder if he's already gone, lost in another part of the city, talking too much to someone else. You tell yourself it doesn't matter, that you'll forget. But the wanting climbs up your throat: to be seen, to be loved, to be held until it finally stops.

Your hand is cold. Empty. You remember how his fingers never quite fit right with yours, how he held on too loosely, always distracted. But now, standing alone on the pier, you would give anything for even that. An imperfect hold, anything that meant you weren't standing here alone.

You remember the first time he caught your hand, outside the Art Institute, when you were about to cross against the light. He pulled you back without thinking, laughing nervously, thumb brushing your wrist like he couldn't believe he'd dared. That laugh still lives in you, stitched into your ribs.

Footsteps echo across the boards, soft and hesitant. You don't turn. You stay with the water, with the ache in your chest.

Maybe it's him. Maybe it's not. Maybe this is how you'll remember him: in fragments, in the rhythm of footsteps that might never reach you.

You wait anyway.