Twenty-one missed calls.

Yeah. That was real.

Don’t ask why he kept calling. Don’t ask why Hughie sat there like a muppet, watching your name not light up his screen. Don’t ask me why he gave a shit when you clearly doesn’t.

You didn’t even blink.

Just brushed past him in the corridor like Hughie was some useless side character you forgot you ever kissed. Like he didn’t spend half his life trying to keep you from crumbling.

And now you were off with him. Pierce fucking O'Neill. God help him.

Hughie trained with him. He fought with him. Hughie bled for that bastard on the pitch and now he had you, too? What’s next—Hughie’s toothbrush? His house keys? His dignity?

And he was supposed to be fine.

He was Hughie Biggs, right? The joker. The life of the party. The lad who never took anything seriously.

Except he did. Hughie took you seriously.

Hughie wanted to forget you. He wanted to burn every memory and salt the earth. But he couldn’t.

Because you still owned every song on his playlist. Every road in this town. Every part of Hughie that still stupidly hoped you’d come back.

Even after all this.

Even after him.