He doesn’t reach for you.

Not anymore.

But the way he looks at you when your eyes meet across the corridor—like he’s watching a memory flicker back to life—tells you everything he doesn’t say.

This wasn’t a love story. It was never soft enough to be that.

It was chaos. Raw and reckless. Midnight arguments in corridors. Bloody knuckles. Smirking through tears. Every kiss like a dare. Every silence like a scream.

And when it ended, it didn’t end. It detonated.

And yet—there he is, again. Leaning against the wall like the world didn’t cave in around you both. Like he doesn’t dream of you in the dark, teeth gritted, jaw clenched, haunted by the sound of your voice saying “I can’t do this anymore.”

You try to keep walking.

“Still haunting the places we burned down?” he says, voice smooth and dangerous as ever.

You freeze. You weren’t ready for this. You never are, where he’s concerned.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” The words come out brittle, like your spine is holding just long enough not to splinter.

But he hears the crack anyway. He always does.

Barty tilts his head, smile lazy but eyes sharp.

“You look better angry,” he says. “Means you haven’t let go.”

You hate how right he is.

Because you did try. Tried to sleep, to breathe, to pretend. You tried to move on. But nothing stuck. Not when every path you take still echoes with the ghosts of what you were with him.

“I was shattered,” you whisper. “You broke me.”

That does something to him. His expression falters—just enough. He looks away for a moment like the words hit deeper than he expected.

“I know,” he says quietly, honestly. “A funeral we dressed up in fireworks.”

The words hit like a ghost pulling you back into the ashes.

“I know I wrecked it,” he adds, quieter. “But don’t act like you didn’t light the match with me.”