You sit across from him at a booth in some overpriced London café. The kind with gold-rimmed menus and empty conversations. The silence between you is loud—so much unsaid it practically hums under the table like static.

Jamie’s stirring the foam of his coffee with a spoon, even though he’s not touched it. You watch his hands. It’s easier than looking at his eyes.

“We don’t talk much anymore,” you murmur, voice almost lost in the clink of plates around you.

His lips twitch into something like a smile. “Guess nothing’s changed.”

You huff a laugh, but there’s no joy in it. “That’s the problem, Jamie. Nothing changes. We just keep doing this—dancing around the truth, waiting for the other to be brave enough to say it.”

His fingers drum the table. “So say it.”

You lean in slightly. “If I tell you I still love you, you’ll leave. Like always. You’ll break my heart because that’s what we do, yeah? You push, I pull. We pretend we’re not the same.”

Jamie finally meets your gaze, and for a second, you see it—that flicker of something real. Something that could’ve been.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says softly.

“But you would,” you whisper, “because I’d let you.”

Silence again. Heavy. Familiar.

“You know,” you add, eyes falling to your hands, “there are worse things I could take than the truth.”

Jamie nods slowly. “Then here it is: I miss you. But I don’t know if we can fix this.”