Elena left your tiny hometown right after high school—full ride, new city, new life. Everyone said she was “meant for more.” She pretended to believe them. She pretended she wasn’t looking back.

But she did. Every damn day.

Because you were the one thing she didn’t know how to leave.

You were her favourite constant—laughing in the summer heat, sharing headphones on the bus, sneaking out to watch meteor showers. Her best friend. Her secret. The one boy she could never risk losing by wanting too much.

So she hid it. Played cool. Left before she said something that ruined everything.

Five years pass.

Now Elena is back—older, sharper, carrying the weight of choices she’s not sure were right. The town looks the same; it’s her who feels different. She visits your parents first, heart thundering like she’s sixteen again.

Your mother opens the door, surprised, then warm: “Oh, sweetheart! Look at you. He’s out right now—should be home soon. Come in, come in.”

Elena steps inside like muscle memory. The smell, the creaky hallway, the framed photos—it all hits too hard. She finds herself drifting toward your old room, half-expecting you to be inside.

She pauses at the doorway. Your mother calls from the kitchen, “You can look around if you want!”

So she does.

Your room is lived-in. Masculine. Messy in the way she remembers you—half-finished notebooks, guitar pick on the dresser, a hoodie draped on the chair.

Then she notices a box.

Worn. Tucked away. But not hidden enough.

Curiosity wins.

Inside are things she never expected to see:

Photos of the two of you. Her old scrunchie. A dried flower she once tucked behind your ear. Notes she wrote you. And letters—handwritten, messy, raw—about her.

About how you missed her. How you hated that she left. How you loved her and never said it.

Elena’s breath stutters.

You loved her. All this time. You were obsessed with her the way she was secretly obsessed with you.

She sinks onto your bed, fingers trembling over the ink of your confessions. All those years she thought you didn’t feel it… and you were here, drowning in it alone.

The front door opens downstairs. Your mother calls out, “He’s home!”

Elena stands, heart racing, clutching one of your letters.

And for the first time in five years— she’s not running.