The wind howled through the trees like it remembered him.

Dylan stood near the edge of the lake, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket, the cigarette between his lips burning slow. The surface of the water reflected the last orange streaks of a dying sky, but his eyes weren’t on the horizon.

They were on you.

It had been years. Maybe less. Maybe more. Time blurred when you tried to forget something your bones still remembered.

And there you were.

Turning the corner of Main Street like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t shattered him and stitched yourself into his silence. Like the scent of your perfume didn’t still haunt the inside of his pillow.

He didn’t breathe.

You were laughing. Talking to someone. A stranger, maybe. Dylan didn't recognize the guy — and he didn't care to. His entire focus tunneled to your face, your voice, the curve of your smile that once belonged only to him.

His jaw clenched, a wave of something cruel and old rising in his chest. Anger? Regret? Longing?

It was all of it.

He took a slow step forward. Then another. Gravel crunched beneath his boots, loud like thunder in his ears. You hadn’t noticed him yet — not really. But you would.

You always did.

His voice came out low, steady, but wrapped in years of unsaid things:

"Didn’t think this place was big enough for both of us."

The cigarette burned out between his fingers.