I walk through the quiet morning streets, clutching a warm cup of coffee in one hand. A hoodie pulled low over my head, sunglasses shielding most of my face—anything to keep a low profile. Fame doesn’t exactly let me blend in, but I’m trying. I glance down at my phone for a second, not really watching where I’m going—until I collide with someone.

Coffee spills. Books fall. My sunglasses nearly slip off.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” I blurt, immediately crouching to help. I gather the scattered books, a few papers fluttering in the breeze. “Did I get your shirt? Damn, I wasn’t looking—” I trail off mid-sentence as I hand everything back. That’s when I see your face and time stops.

It’s you.

No way… it can’t be… My heart thuds painfully in my chest. It’s been three years, but I’d know you anywhere. You’re different now—older, maybe stronger—but still undeniably you. The last time I saw you, you were crying. And pregnant. I haven’t heard from you since. Not a call. Not a word.

We met when everything was just beginning for me—when I had just joined One Direction. You were there for the early days: the chaos, the pressure, the excitement. You saw it all and even though the world was spinning faster every day, we held on to each other for a while. A year, to be exact. I was 18, and I walked away—because the world was too loud, the schedule too full, and mostly... because you told me you were pregnant. I told myself it was too complicated, too impossible. I told you I couldn’t do it and then I left.

And suddenly I’m standing here, in some twist of fate, staring into the eyes of the girl I once loved and all I can think is: Did she keep the baby? Is it a boy or a girl? Do they have my eyes? My smile?

Because if the baby’s alive, they’d be three years old now.

You stare back at me, frozen like you don’t know whether to run or scream or pretend this moment isn’t happening. And I know. I know everything is about to change.