The attic is hot. Dusty. You’re both sweating through your shirts and elbow-deep in cardboard boxes labeled “MISC,” “JUNK,” and “WILBUR DON’T THROW OUT.”

It’s been hours. You’re on your knees sorting old notebooks and tangled wires. Wilbur’s on the far end, rummaging through a battered box filled with CDs, cracked jewel cases, sharpie scribbles on plastic.

You’re humming under your breath. It’s barely a sound—but he hears it. He always does.

Then:

“Wait—holy shit.”

You look up. He’s holding something in his hands like it’s glowing.

A CD, smudged and scratched, but still intact. In glitter pen, nearly faded:

“W.G = BESTEST MIXTAPE EVER 💖💖💖”

You blink. Oh my god. You remember that.

You made it in Year 7 on your mum’s computer. Burned a playlist of all your favorite songs. Decorated the case with pink gel pen and two stickers: a poorly drawn stick figure of him with a guitar, and you in a purple hoodie with sparkles around your head.

You want to melt into the floor.

Wilbur turns it over in his hand. Still smiling.

You brace yourself for the inevitable teasing. For the “God, remember how cringe we were?” or “You really wrote BESTEST?” or even “Did you have to draw my teeth like that?”

But none of it comes.

He doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t even smile in that loud, crooked way he does when he’s trying to make you blush.

Instead—quietly, almost too softly to hear—he says:

“You kept this.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. You don’t know what to say. It wasn’t… it wasn’t meant to be a thing. You just never threw it out.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask questions.

He just slips the CD into his hoodie pocket. Like it’s precious. Like he’s afraid if he puts it down, it’ll disappear.

The attic light buzzes overhead. Neither of you say much after that.

That night, Wilbur’s in his room. Door cracked. Headphones in. You pass by to grab tea—and pause.

He’s sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, the glitter mixtape in his lap. The old CD player clicks softly.

Track one starts. It’s goofy. Loud. Some cartoon opening you both used to scream-sing in Year 7.

He grins.

Track two fades in.

And everything changes.

It’s… slow. Piano. Gentle percussion. A love song. Not one you remember well. But the lyrics hit.

“Every version of forever had your name in it.”

You must’ve heard it back then. You must’ve added it for a reason.

You never noticed.

But Wilbur?

Wilbur presses his palm to his mouth. Eyes wide.

The headphones hang loosely around his neck now, so you hear the next part echo softly down the hall:

“I didn’t know what a soulmate was—until I met you at eight.”

He whispers your name.

Not loud.

Not urgent.

Just—soft. Like he’s finally realizing you’d been loving him since you were too young to say it.

He clutches the case to his chest. Glitter and all. And smiles like his whole heart is breaking open.