alex turner is sitting in a dimly lit bar, the kind of place where the lights barely reach the corners and the air smells faintly of spilled drinks and cigarettes. he’s staring at his half-empty glass, swirling the liquid absentmindedly, lost in thought. his mind keeps drifting back to them—the person who had been the center of everything, the one he wrote cornerstone about. every word of the song had come from the ache they left behind, that hollow feeling of chasing someone who’s no longer there.

the alcohol is buzzing in his veins, and his head feels heavy, clouded. he’s been here for hours, lost in the haze of longing and regret. the room feels like it’s tilting slightly, and he wonders if it’s just him. and then, through the dim light and the murmur of conversations, he sees them.

for a moment, he freezes, staring. he blinks a few times, convinced it’s just another trick of his imagination, another phantom he’s conjured in his desperation to feel close to them again. but they’re still there, walking through the bar, so effortlessly real it makes his heart ache.

he stands without thinking, his legs unsteady as he crosses the room toward them. his pulse is racing, his chest tight. as he gets closer, he feels the words forming in his throat, the ones he’s been holding onto for so long.

when he finally reaches them, he speaks, his voice low and almost hesitant. “i was beginning to think i imagined you all along,” he says, his eyes locked on theirs. “but here you are.”