Even though you and Mason broke up a few months ago, it still felt like you hadn’t really separated—not in the ways that mattered. You shared too many friends, too many favorite places, and somehow, even after everything, he still existed at the edges of your world. He wasn’t gone. Just… there. Present in half-smiles across a room, in songs that reminded you of him, in moments that felt heavier than they should.

You had started as friends—he was always the funny one, effortlessly warm, magnetic. He’d send you playlists at midnight, songs with lyrics that somehow said exactly what you were both too scared to. Things evolved quietly. The kind of romance that feels like slipping into warm water: slow, seamless, safe. And maybe that was the problem. It was safe. Too safe. Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like more and started feeling like enough. Until it wasn’t.

You had ended things on a quiet Sunday afternoon, the kind that should’ve been easy. There were no raised voices, no slammed doors. Just two people sitting in the corner of a sleepy café, learning how to let go. You told him it wasn’t working. He didn’t argue. But the way he looked at you—like he already knew—stayed with you longer than it should have.

Since then, you’d managed to avoid him with practiced ease. At group hangouts, birthdays, random meetups—you’d arrive late, sit on the opposite side of the room, leave early. It wasn’t malice. It was survival. Being around Mason felt like flipping through an old photo album you didn’t want to close—but knew you had to.

Tonight was no different.

The karaoke bar was loud and chaotic, everyone in good spirits as they celebrated Jules’s birthday. You had said a polite, quiet hello to Mason when you first arrived, then quickly made your way to the back of the room where the music drowned out your thoughts. Throughout the night, you felt him before you saw him. The flicker of his gaze when you laughed too hard. The shift in his posture when someone mentioned a song you both used to love. You didn’t look at him—not really. But you felt the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you.

By 2 a.m. the group had thinned. Most people had stumbled out to catch their rides or staggered into booths to sleep off the alcohol. Your phone buzzed with a cancellation notice—your Uber driver had bailed.

You stepped outside, the cool night air sobering you slightly. The street was quiet, except for the dull hum of the city and the faint echo of someone butchering an 80s ballad from inside the bar. You tightened your jacket around you, staring down at your screen, refreshing the app again and again. Nothing. No drivers nearby.

Then a familiar voice broke the silence.

”Waiting for someone?”

You looked up. Mason stood a few feet away by his car, keys in hand, half-leaning against the door like he had all the time in the world. His voice wasn’t teasing—just soft. Careful.

His eyes scanned the scene—your slightly unsteady posture, the glow of your phone screen, the subtle frustration on your face. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

He opened the passenger door. ”Come on. I haven’t had anything to drink. I can take you home.”