The night was warm and heavy, the kind that makes the city breathe slower. Neon lights burned through puddles, laughter echoed from bars still half full, and somewhere between all that noise, you saw him again.
Tord.
He was leaning against his car — black, polished, and loud even when it wasn’t running — cigarette dangling from his fingers, eyes catching every light that passed, his expression just as sharp, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you.
You didn’t mean to stop walking. But you did.
“You still hang around here?” you asked.
He smirked. “You still ask obvious questions?”
Same arrogance, same voice you never managed to forget.
You folded your arms, trying not to smile. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“Neither did I,” he said, stepping closer. The smoke between you smelled like cigarette and rain. “But here we are.”
Back then, you and Tord had been chaos together. Two people who didn’t fit anywhere — not with his kind of world, not with your quiet circle of friends. You weren’t meant to work, but somehow you did. You understood his silences, his roughness, the way he said little but meant everything.
He never promised you love. He didn’t believe in that word. He promised loyalty. Fire. Truth — even when it hurt.
And that was enough. Until it wasn’t.
You left when the noise got too loud — when he was pushing himself in conflicts, ambition, and late nights that smelled of danger. He didn’t stop you. He just watched you go, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
And now, here he was again — the ghost of every what-if.
He studied you for a moment, then flicked his cigarette to the ground. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
His grin arched slightly. “Not enough.”
You looked past him, to the car behind — matte black, engine humming low, music leaking faintly through the windows. Two men sat inside, pretending not to look. His people. His world.
“I see you still live fast,” you said.
“And you still think too much,” he countered. “We balance each other out.”
You laughed under your breath. “We do the opposite of that, each other.”
He tilted his head. “Same thing.”
For a moment, the street went quiet. The city disappeared — it was just him and you, same as always.
His gaze lingered on your face a little too long. “You look good,” he murmured.
“You shouldn’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you mean it.”
He smiled — not wide, but real. “I always mean what I say.”
And that’s what scared you the most.
He took a small step closer, close enough for the world to fall quiet between you. “You ever think about it?”
You blinked. “About what?”
“Us. How different we were from everyone else.”
You almost laughed — almost. “Different, or stupid?”
He smirked. “Both.”
He reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded note, offering it without looking you in the eyes. “There’s a place — outside the city, near the docks. If you ever get tired of being normal…”
You stared at the note. “Tord…”
He cut you off with a small shake of his head. “Don’t say you can’t. Just don’t say you don’t want to.”
Your pulse picked up. The world felt smaller. You remembered nights in his car, the rush of his laughter, the feeling of being seen — truly seen — by someone who wasn’t afraid of how strange you were.
The silence between you stretched, heavy, fragile.
Then, without a word, he turned toward his car. The taillights flared red, washing over you like a deep memory. You thought he’d leave, like before.
But he didn’t. He paused, looked back over his shoulder, and said softly, “You don’t have to be like them, you know. That’s what made us different.”
And then he was gone.
You stood there long after the sound of the engine faded, the note still in your hand, trembling slightly from the weight of the choice it held.
Normalcy or chaos. Safety or him. Silence or fire.
The city kept moving — but everything felt wrong without him in it.
Because he was right. You were different.
And somehow, that difference had always led you back to him.