The music was loud, the lights soft, and the love in the room suffocating. Lip had his hands in his pockets, standing off to the side like he always did—on the fringe of everyone else’s happiness. Ian and Mickey were dancing, drunk on each other and whiskey, and all Lip could think about was how he didn’t belong here.

Then he saw you.

Three years.

Three f**king years of silence. Of empty mornings and half-written texts. Of remembering the last fight, the slammed door, and how you were gone the next day. No goodbye. Not even a note. Just space where you used to be.

You were standing across the room, dress clinging to you like the past, looking at him like you didn’t know whether to run or cry.

You turned. “Lip—”

“Don’t,” he said, voice sharp. “Don’t f**king say my name like we’re still something.”

“I didn’t expect you to be happy to see me,” you said, voice trembling.

“Happy?” he scoffed. “You think I’m happy you’re here? After disappearing for three years? No call, no message—nothing. Like I was some phase you outgrew.”

You swallowed. “I left because I had to. You know that.”

“No,” he snapped. “I don’t. I know we fought. I know it got ugly. But I thought we were bigger than one night. I thought we were us.”

“I was falling apart, Lip,” you whispered. “I didn’t know how to come back from it.”

“You didn’t even try,” he hissed. “I needed you. I was drowning. And you were just… gone.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. “I hated myself for it.”

“Not as much as I did,” he said, softer now, but the ache was still there, raw and bleeding. “I waited. I gave you every excuse. But in the end, you just didn’t choose me.”

Silence. Heavy, brutal.

“I’m here now,” you said. “If that still means something.”

He looked at you like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to scream or kiss you.

“It means it’s too late,” he said. And this time, when he turned to leave.