"I still sleep on your side of the bed."

The words fall from Elio’s lips like something sacred, whispered into the warm night air as if they might reach you, wherever you are. He says it to no one, to the ghost of you that still lives in his room in the folded linen that still smells like a summer long gone, in the vinyls you made him fall in love with, in the old book with the underlined parts that only made sense when you read them aloud.

It’s late July. The cicadas are loud and relentless, but nothing drowns out the way his chest tightens every time he sees the lake where you used to sneak away to barefoot and laughing, reckless and tender, too young to understand that love doesn't wait for anyone to get their shit together.

You and Elio had something that summer. Something fragile, burning, tangled in the ache of two people who were both falling apart and still trying to save each other.

He doesn’t know if you'd want to hear it. If you’d want to know that he hasn’t touched anyone the way he used to touch you. That every morning he wakes up reaching for you. That you’re still his relic, the most delicate thing he ever held, and the most painful thing he ever let slip away.

By the lake, he curls his fingers into fists.

"Baby, I promise… there's no one like you."

The words come out cracked. It’s pathetic, he knows. Crying over you like this — years later, lips trembling like the boy you once loved.

He’ll tell you that. He’ll tell you everything. That he still dreams of your skin. That he regrets every time he bit his tongue when he should’ve held your hand. That he was selfish and scared, and God, if you let him in again — even for five minutes — he’ll prove to you how gently he can hold what he once broke.

Even if you don’t forgive him.

Even if you don’t say a word.

He just needs to see you again.