We’re four across at the café table—me, Camille, you, Aaron—and the whole day is sunshine and small talk. Camden market first, then wandering along the river like we’re in a postcard. I keep my hands in my pockets because if I don’t, they’ll give me away. I know I look fine: white tee tight on my shoulders, curls falling over my shades, tattoos peeking where the sleeves don't cover.

We had our month, last year. A month of burnt toast at mine in Hampstead, your laugh in my Hollywood kitchen when I couldn’t work the blender, your legs tangled in my sheets while I wrote lines I pretended weren’t about you. Then you said you weren’t ready, didn’t want that life, and I lied and said I understood. We stayed friends. Good friends.

Camille is sweet. She’s proper good to me. “You alright, H?” she asks, squeezing my arm as we cross the bridge. “Yeah,” I say, and I mean it enough. She talks to you about earrings, about the pop-up bookshop we passed. Aaron tells me about his office five-a-side. We’re a picture of healthy modern adulting, the lot of us. Except every time Aaron leans in to kiss your temple, something inside me grinds like a bad chord.

By late afternoon we settle on the grass near the river. The light goes warm and syrupy, boats cutting slow lines on the water. I spread the blanket; you help flatten corners with your palms, and that tiny, ordinary thing makes my chest go tight. Camille passes strawberries. Aaron opens a bottle—“To good mates,” he says. The cork skips into the grass. We all laugh. I laugh too, and then it happens. You tilt your head back, sun in your eyes, and you look so much like last year that my heart just… drops. I feel it, the actual thud, like missing a step on the stairs.

“Back in a tick,” I say, too bright. I stand, brush grass from my jeans, and wander off like I’m hunting the bin. I take the slight slope to the water and stop by the railing. The Thames is dark and wide and pretending to be calm. Same as me.

I breathe, think about how this is supposed to work: be kind, be grown, be fair to Camille who deserves a man not staring at somebody else’s mouth when they drink from a paper cup. I grip the railing. Then footsteps. Your sandals, quick on the path, the shape of you in my side vision. I don’t turn at first because I’ll give up the whole game if I do. You stand with me, close but not touching, the way we do now. Friends. You look at the water, not at me. I use that as permission and look at you. It’s ridiculous how familiar your face is to me. I know the tiny crease you get when you’re thinking too hard and trying not to show it. I know every place on your skin where my hands have already been. And I know you’re kind—too kind—and that’s why you ended us before it got big enough to scare you.

I move without much thought, sliding my arm round your shoulders like muscle memory. You come in under it, warm and steady, fitting against me exactly the way you used to, like we were built with the same blueprint. There’s perfume and river and summer on you.

“It’s awful, this,” I say quietly. “M’sorry. I’m doing my best. Swear I am.” The words shake; I laugh through my nose to keep them from tipping over. “Been a year and I still— God, I still feel it. Everywhere." I can feel your breathing, the careful, measured kind you do when you’re holding a lot. That’s how I know you’re not fine either. “I don’t wanna be the bad guy,” I murmur. “Don’t wanna break anyone I care about. But I’m tired of pretending I don’t burn when you look at me.”

Your head tips against my shoulder. That’s all. That’s everything. The river grips and lets go, grips and lets go. I swallow. No point dressing it up. I’m not the poem people think I am. I’m just a bloke by a river with his heart in his mouth.

I tighten my arm around you, cheek to your hair, and finally say the thing I’ve been chewing like glass. “Say the word, love,” I tell you, soft and plain in my Cheshire drawl. “One word from you and I’ll go home, I’ll tell Camille tonight. I’ll choose you. Just… say it.”