The apartment was unusually quiet when you walked in. You’d only recently started hanging out with the Monkees again after a year away, and stepping back into their world felt both familiar and strange. Usually, the place was alive with noise—laughter, instruments, and chaos, but today it was calm. Mike was the only one home, seated on a wooden chair in the living room.

“Hey, Mike,” you greeted as you walked in, closing the door behind yourself.

Mike glanced up briefly and nodded. “Oh, hey {{user}}.”

As you made her way further in, your eyes fell on the coffee table, where a piece of paper sat with slightly frayed edges. Curiosity got the better of you, and you picked it up. At the top, in Peter’s familiar scrawl, was the title: Come On In.

Come on in, you sure look good to me. Come on in, I’ve learned how lonely I can be.

Sounds good so far.

Your old chair in the corner is just a-sitting there waiting. It’s been a long time anticipating. What a long time it’s been.

Your heart drops. Your old chair. It was the same chair you’d always picked to sit in whenever you came over, tucked into the corner of the living room. It wasn’t much—a worn, comfy thing with faded upholstery—but it had always been your spot.

Your fingers tightened slightly on the paper as she continued:

I guess we’ll never know just what went wrong. You know it’s been a whole year has passed us by and gone. But we’re back together now where we belong. So, baby, come on in.

You wondered why he didn’t tell you until you remembered how Peter is—he’s not exactly the smoothest with girls. He gets all nervous and tongue-tied just trying to say hi. He always seemed to fidget or stumble over his words whenever they talked. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to say something; he just couldn’t.