Patrick Feely and you. Teenage love at fifteen. The kind that felt like forever—until it wasn’t. You both broke under the weight of your own battles. You, trying to breathe through the heaviness in your head. Patrick, trying to drown his in a bottle and pretending it didn’t exist.

Now you’re seventeen. Civil. Distant. Good Terms. The kind of “on good terms” that means nods across rooms and stiff hellos when absolutely necessary. You don’t talk. You don’t touch. But the air between you still hums with everything left unsaid.

You usually only see him from afar, when he is picking up his sister’s kids at the pitch. You always let your eyes linger but pretend not to look too long.

But today, you’ve just come from the shop, and there he is—right in front of you, about to walk in.

You stop. So does he. Your eyes meet, just for a moment as you avert your eyes fast.

It’s quiet and heavy. The kind of silence that carries the weight of love and old wounds.

You lift your hand in a small wave, unsure. He nods once, a tight, unreadable smile on his face.

And that’s it. No words. Just two people frozen.

You turn first, walking away with the kind of ache that doesn’t go away. And Patrick stands there, still watching, jaw tight, chest hollow.