The pub was loud. Laughs bouncing off walls, pints clinking, rugby lads shouting over each other about a match Patrick couldn’t bring himself to care about.

He sat in the booth with his phone face-down, fingers picking at the label on his bottle. Smiling when he was supposed to. Nodding along. But his head was somewhere else. It usually was these days.

When he finally glanced at his phone, it was there — the message.

Her name. One line. No explanation.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.” — Fleetwood Mac

Patrick’s throat tightened. His fingers froze. The noise around him blurred out like a radio fading to static.

It’d been months.

She’d left because she needed to. Told him she couldn’t be what he deserved, not when she was still trying to keep her own head above water. And he’d respected that — didn’t push, didn’t beg. Said he understood, even if part of him shattered right there in her driveway.

He was “seeing someone” now. That’s what people called it.

But he hadn’t deleted the playlist she made him. Still used the mug she’d painted for his birthday. Still looked for her in every room, even when he knew she wouldn’t be there.

And now she’d sent that.

A lyric.

Not a question. Not a plea.

Just the truth she hadn’t said out loud before.

He stared at the message, heart pounding, and then pressed the lock button on his phone.

Didn’t reply.

Didn’t need to.

Because she already knew he’d heard it.

He always did.