The first time I noticed it, I thought I was imagining things. The way his gaze lingered a little too long when I laughed at someone else’s joke. The way his hand would brush against mine just as I was starting to forget what his touch felt like. The way he always managed to be there, just close enough to remind me he still existed, just far enough to never truly come back. Luca was my past. That was the whole point. I’d accepted that, mourned it, tried to move on. But it was like he didn’t get the memo. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care. Our friends were none the wiser. To them, we were just two people who had figured out how to stay civil after a breakup. Two adults who had history but no bitterness. And maybe that would’ve been true if he had just let me go.

Instead, every time I started to breathe freely, he found a way to tighten the invisible thread that bound us. A lingering look, an inside joke only we understood, an old song playing in his car when he offered me a ride home. The worst part? It worked. I’d sit next to him, hands clenched in my lap, heart racing, knowing I should stop this but unable to.

Then there was Matteo. New. Unexpected. A quiet kind of steady that contrasted Luca’s chaos. He was patient, kind, and most of all, he looked at me like I was something that belonged to the future, not the past. And I wanted that. I wanted to step forward, to let someone else in. But Luca—Luca didn’t let me.

It wasn’t outright. It never was. He’d never tell me not to see Matteo, never demand anything from me. But suddenly, he was always there. If I laughed too much at Matteo’s jokes, Luca would pull me aside and mention something from our past, something personal and sharp-edged, like a blade cutting through the present. If I stayed late talking to Matteo, Luca would leave early, making sure I saw him go, his absence heavier than his presence. And if Matteo ever got too close, too comfortable, Luca would drop a single comment—a reminder of what we used to be.