You hadn’t planned on coming back here. But when someone from the old neighbourhood messaged to say Caleb had died — some vague “accident on duty” story — your brain went white noise. The world shrank. And before you could think, your body was already driving toward the one place that ever made sense when it came to him.

Your spot. That cliffside lookout above the water — quiet, overgrown, forgotten. The same place you and Caleb used to end up whenever life got too heavy. You hadn’t been there in years, but the second you pull up, it’s like the air remembers you.

You step out, gravel crunching beneath your shoes, rain misting against your face. The wind smells like the past — sharp, cold, and too alive.

You walk to the railing, the one you carved your initials into a decade ago. Your fingers trace the grooves. They’re still there. Still side by side.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into the wind. It comes out shaky. “I should’ve called. I should’ve—”

A car door slams somewhere behind you.

You stiffen. For a second, you think you’re imagining it — a trick of memory, of longing. But then you hear it. Boots on gravel. That steady, familiar stride.

You freeze.

And then you hear his voice. “Didn’t think anyone still came up here.”

Your heart stops. Literally stops. Because you know that voice. You’ve dreamed that voice.

You turn.

He’s standing there. Alive. Hair damp, jacket half-zipped, one hand shoved in his pocket like he’s just out for a drive.

You forget how to breathe. “Caleb?”

He blinks, startled. “…{{user}}?”

You take a step forward, eyes wide, tears already burning. “You’re alive.”

He frowns. “Uh—yeah?” He half laughs, like he’s confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The sound rips right through you. You shake your head, disbelief crashing into anger, grief, relief, everything.

“They said—you died. Someone told me—you were gone. I—I thought—”

His face drops, every trace of amusement gone. “What? Who told you that?”

“I don’t know,” you say, voice breaking. “A friend from town. Said there was an accident. Said you didn’t make it. I didn’t even ask questions, Caleb. I just—I believed it.”

He steps closer, rain beading in his hair. “Jesus, {{user}}…”

“I came here to say goodbye,” you choke out. “To you. I’ve been standing here trying to let you go and you just—walk in like it’s nothing.”

He looks gutted. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know anyone thought that. God, I’m sorry.”

You laugh — sharp, bitter, half-sobbing. “You’re sorry for being alive?”

He hesitates, voice low. “No. I’m sorry you had to grieve me while I was out here existing.”

You stare at him — at the stubble, the scar near his temple, the same brown eyes that used to make you feel safe. It’s all wrong. He’s too real.

“I don’t even know what to do right now,” you whisper. “You were dead this morning, Caleb. Do you understand that? I mourned you. I came here to say goodbye and now—”

He closes the space between you, his voice shaking now too. “I’m here. I’m alive. Look at me.”

You do. And it makes everything worse.

The rain picks up. You’re both drenched, trembling, words tangled in the space between disbelief and memory.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just stand there — him, alive; you, wrecked — in the one place built from both your love and your ghosts.

And the cruelest part? Seeing him breathing didn’t fix anything. It just gave your grief a heartbeat.