the first time you met drew starkey, he had a black eye and a crooked grin. you were nine. he’d fallen off his bike trying to impress some older kids, and you’d offered him a popsicle and a bandaid.

“you’re gonna be famous one day,” you told him.

“and you’re gonna be the one person who knew me before all that.”

you didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of everything.

you grew up together in a town so small you could walk from end to end in twenty minutes. bonfires, football games, the lake in summer—your world was made of those moments. and in the middle of all of them, was drew.

by seventeen, you were in love. the kind of love that feels too big for two people. the kind that makes promises feel like truths.

he’d look at you like he already missed you. “when i make it out there,” he’d whisper under starlight, “i’m taking you with me.”

but dreams are heavy. and hollywood came calling.

you helped him pack.

you kissed him goodbye at the bus station, trying not to cry.

“don’t forget me,” you joked, even though your voice cracked.

“never,” he said.

but time is cruel. and distance is crueler.

texts turned into maybes. then maybes turned into nothing. you stared at your phone for months before you finally stopped.

you told yourself he’d changed. that fame got to his head. that maybe he never meant it the way you did.

so you moved on. or tried to.

you got a job. you made new friends. you learned to stop checking his instagram. you even went on a few dates.

still, when you saw his face on tv, it felt like a bruise being pressed.

then one night, three years later, your phone buzzed.

someone had sent you a clip. a late-night interview. you almost didn’t watch it.

but curiosity is a stubborn thing.

the host was smiling, leaning in. “have you ever been in love, drew?”

he laughed at first. the crowd did too.

then he paused.

“…yeah,” he said quietly. “but i let her go.”

you sat still. heart frozen.

“what happened?” the host asked.

drew looked down. “she was home. and i left. and i guess i thought there’d be time to fix it later. but later never came.”

the audience made that soft, collective sound—half awe, half heartbreak.

but you didn’t hear them.

you just heard him.

and the internet? it exploded.

fans clipped it. dissected it. hunted for who “she” was.

it didn’t take long.

they found old photos. prom. a blurry one of you two on the hood of his truck, laughing.

your instagram lit up like wildfire.

but you didn’t say anything.

not until the flowers showed up.

white roses. your favorite. with a card that just said i still remember.

then came the plane ticket. first class. no note, just his name on the itinerary.

and then—him.

no cameras. no PR. just drew starkey, standing on your front porch, holding the exact same crooked grin you fell for.

“hey,” he said, almost breathless. “i didn’t want the world to find you before i did.”

you didn’t know what to say. you still don’t.

because somehow, you’re seventeen again. and he’s still looking at you like there’s no one else.

“i don’t have all the answers,” he admits. “but i know i never stopped loving you. and if you’ll have me… maybe this time, you can come with me.”

and this time, you don’t have to think.

you just nod.

because sometimes, love doesn’t forget.

it just waits.

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