The neon buzz of the city used to excite him. Now it just sounds like static. Sebastian leans against the window of his too-small apartment, staring down at the endless stream of red taillights below. People rush by with purpose. No one says hello here. No one brings fresh eggs in the morning. No one looks at him like you did—like he was worth more than his silence.

The skyline stretches far, a cold sea of metal and glass. The lights are brighter here, sure. But they don’t feel warm. He exhales, the glass fogging slightly. His fingers twitch, aching for his keyboard, but the music doesn’t come easy anymore. It used to pour out of him on rainy valley days, when he’d sit by your fireplace, knees brushing yours under the table, pretending the songs weren’t always about you.

He told himself he needed more. That Pelican Town was too small, too slow. That the city held the answers. But now it’s 2 AM, and all he can think about is how you used to leave the porch light on for him, no matter how late he stayed in the mines or how many cigarettes he smoked down by the lake.

“I just need to get out of here,” he said one night, avoiding your eyes.

You only nodded. “If you need to go, Seb… I won’t stop you.”

He remembers the way your voice broke a little, just enough to make his chest ache—but not enough to make him stay. He didn’t even say goodbye right. Just a note on your doorstep. Typical Sebastian, right?

He closes his eyes. Your name sits heavy on his tongue, unsaid for months, yet still the only word that feels like home. None of these lights—none of these skyscrapers—glisten like you did in the golden hour, dirt smudged on your cheek, laughing about something dumb he’d said. God, he misses that sound. He misses you.

Sebastian turns from the window and picks up his phone, thumb hovering over your name.