You don’t talk about Rafe anymore.

Not with your friends. Not with yourself. Not even when the nights get too quiet and your chest feels too hollow.

It’s easier to pretend it never happened. He was chaos in human form — unpredictable, intense, impossible to ignore. But when it was just the two of you, in the quiet, in the dark, he was different.

You wanted so badly to be the reason he healed. To be enough to pull him out of whatever storm lived inside his head.

But love doesn’t fix people. And you learned that too late.

The last fight was quiet. That’s how you knew it was over. No yelling. No broken things. Just… silence. And the soft, exhausted words: “I can’t do this anymore, Rafe.”

His voice cracked when he asked, “So that’s it?”

You didn’t cry until after he left.

Now, months later, he’s still everywhere. In your playlists. In your favorite hoodie — the one you swore you’d return but couldn’t let go of.

And you know he’s still in town. You hear things. Still pretending nothing hurts him.

But someone told you he doesn’t bring girls home anymore.

Not since you.

One night, you see him again.

At a party. You weren’t supposed to go. Maybe part of you wanted to see him. Maybe part of you hoped he’d look for you in the crowd.

And he does.

You lock eyes across the room, and for a second — the whole world goes quiet.

He walks over, slowly, like you might disappear if he moves too fast.

“Hey,” he says. Just that.

You nod. “Hey.”

There’s so much unsaid between you. So many words that never got the chance to be heard.

“I miss you,” he admits. Voice low. Honest.

You swallow hard. “I miss you too.”

He reaches out — but stops just short of touching you. Like he’s waiting for permission he knows you can’t give.

“I wasn’t good for you,” he whispers.

You smile, sad. “But you loved me like no one else ever did.”

His eyes shine a little. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or something deeper.

“I will survive,” you say, half to him, half to yourself. “But I’ll never recover.”

And neither will he.