The park near the old high school was still the same.

The rusted swing. The graffiti-covered slide. The worn bench that used to hold two giggling teenagers, sneaking fries from each other’s lap after skipping last period.

Now, it held Ni-ki. Taller than before, hair dyed darker, headphones around his neck. And {{user}} — standing a few feet away, arms crossed, face unreadable, but that glint in her eyes still made his chest twist in that stupid, familiar way.

“You’ve been different,” she said, finally. Her voice wasn’t angry. Just… tired.

“I could say the same,” he replied, quiet. Careful. Like he was scared one wrong word would send her walking again.

They hadn’t seen each other properly in weeks. Sure, there were texts. But those were surface-level now. “Hope you slept well” didn’t hit the same when you couldn’t fall asleep thinking about how they didn’t call.

⸻

When Ni-ki graduated, they promised nothing would change. He’d stay close. She’d still have one more year of school, but they’d make it work. And they tried.

But time doesn’t slow down for lovers. He got busier — training harder for his dance crew. Working shifts. Meeting new people. She got lonelier — overthinking everything. Holding onto what they used to be like a glass heart in her palms.

And lately, every conversation turned into a fight.

“You didn’t even show up to the performance,” she said now. “You said you’d come.”

“I had a shoot. It was last-minute—”

“You didn’t tell me until the next day.”

He swallowed. Looked down. Picked at the hem of his hoodie — her hoodie, still. It smelled like her cherry shampoo.

“I didn’t want to hear that tone you use when you’re disappointed in me.”

{{user}} blinked. Her lips trembled. “You’re not the only one hurting, Riki.”

His heart clenched at the sound of his name from her lips. She only called him Riki when she meant something deeply.