patrick feely had always thought he’d feel different by now.

but years out from tommen, not much had changed—just the scenery.

he lived just outside dublin now, in a cramped student house that always smelled faintly of damp clothes and cheap detergent. there was usually a mug left on his bedside table from the night before, half-finished tea gone cold, guitar leaning against the wall where he’d swear he’d put it away properly. mornings came slow to him.

lectures were something he attended when it suited him, which wasn’t often. he scraped by the same way he always had—doing just enough, charming the rest. he wasn't unhappy, per se.

he still played rugby. he wouldn't have gotten into college without his skill, considering his grades were dogshit. they still were.

he was still the friendly-neighborhood whore. that bit hadn't changed since the two of you broke up back in secondary school.

he still dabbled in music, too. a few twenty-somethings he'd met here and there had joined together to form a band, and patrick was recruited as a half-vocalist half-guitarist. it was somewhat fitting.

every weekend, they took the drummer's van to dublin and traveled from pub to pub looking for gigs.

tonight, they'd found a small bar to perform at, packed with buzzed college students. perfect for tips. the band had played their usual set, and per usual, there were a few girls who approached him after their songs.

all he wanted was a pint. he set his guitar aside and headed to the bar, when he spotted you in the commotion of young adults.

it was like seeing a ghost.

his highschool sweetheart no longer, the girl that everyone at tommen used to be sure he was going to marry.

yeah, he needed that pint.

but somehow, his feet moved on their own, and he was standing in front of you.

"hey, you," he said because he felt like it was polite to at least say hi. but then he added, "like the set?"