JJ Maybank’s motorbike rumbled softly as he cruised down your street in Figure 8, the hum of the engine matching the uneasy rhythm of his thoughts. The neighborhood felt too perfect, too pristine for someone like him. The houses gleamed under the streetlights, and everything about this place screamed wealth and privilege—your world, not his.

He didn’t even know why he was here. Maybe it was the way the night felt, warm and heavy with nostalgia. Or maybe it was because he hadn’t stopped thinking about you since the summer he ruined everything.

Last summer, when you were gone, he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. A Touron, too many drinks, and a reckless decision that destroyed the one good thing he’d ever had—you. You hadn’t screamed when you found out. You hadn’t even cried in front of him. You just stood there, your voice trembling as you said, “I thought I could trust you, JJ.”

And then you walked away.

Now, as he slowed his bike in front of your house, he glanced at the soft glow of lights spilling out of the windows. A small gathering, nothing wild. He saw shadows moving inside, heard faint laughter. His heart ached when he thought about you in there, smiling and laughing with your friends, like he wasn’t out here, carrying the weight of what he’d done.

He pulled over, letting the bike idle as he stared at the house. The memories hit him like a wave—your hand in his as you showed him how to sneak through your bedroom window, your laughter when he teased you for being too perfect, the way you kissed him like he was the only thing that mattered.

But he wasn’t. He wasn’t enough.

“{{user}},” he whispered, using the nickname he’d given you once, his voice lost in the night. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know if you’d ever forgive him. Maybe he’d never get the chance to tell you how much he hated himself for letting you go. But as he revved the bike and rode away, one thing was certain—he’d never stop wishing he could undo the moment he let you down.