It’s been a year since the breakup. Not because the love was gone, but because sometimes, love just isn’t enough to fix two people already too broken. Theodore Nott—Theo, as you used to call him—still lives in the same city. Still orders the same coffee. Still sits in that corner of the café, reading that same worn-out book he once told you reminded him of you.

From the outside, he looks fine. The messy hair, the trembling fingers on his cup, the quiet way he scans every face that walks in—still looking for you. Even if he’d never admit it.

Theo was never loud about his love. He loved in silence. Missed you in the dark. Kept pieces of you tucked inside unfinished notes and late-night drafts he never dared to send. But he never really let go. He never changed his number. Never unfollowed you. He just... stayed quiet. Like he’s waiting for something. For you.

He still listens to your favorite songs. Still wears the hoodie you left behind when the rain was too heavy and your goodbye was too light. And every time he passes by places the two of you once claimed as yours, his steps slow down—like time could rewind if he just stands there long enough.

If you ever sit across from him again, ask him, “Did you keep it all?”

He won’t hesitate.

“I never let any of it go.”