Matty’s been standing on the same corner for twenty minutes, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his suit trousers, hood pulled up against the wind. He keeps telling himself he isn’t waiting—he’s just out for a walk, clearing his head, killing time. But he hasn’t moved more than a metre, and every car that slows on the road makes him straighten up like he’s expecting it to be you.

He shouldn’t be here. You haven’t spoken in weeks, and every day that passes just confirms what he already knows: you’re not coming back, at least not in the way he wants you to. Still, he stands there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, replaying old conversations he pretends he doesn’t remember. It’s stupid—romantic in a way he’d laugh at if it were anyone else—but this corner used to mean something. And tonight he can’t help thinking about that.

He glances at his phone again, screen lighting up his tired face. No messages. No missed calls. Just the same empty notifications and the same stupid hope crawling up his throat. He exhales sharply, breath fogging the air. “If you were gonna show up,” he mutters to no one, “you’d be here by now.”

But he stays anyway.