The heat brushes gently against your skin as you close the rusty gate behind you. Outside, the noise of motorbikes, honking horns, and sweet bread vendors shouting fills the air. Your life is different now. Simpler. Farther. More yours.

You had left England like someone pulling out a thorn without looking back, with light suitcases and a heart more broken than you were willing to admit. You didn’t expect anything from anyone. Least of all from him.

His hair is shorter now, his eyes more sunken, and he carries himself like someone who’s no longer twenty but still bears the weight of every sin as if he committed them just yesterday. He’s wearing a worn-out gray t-shirt, with no photographers, no security, no applause. Just him.

He scratches the back of his neck. Lowers his gaze. —I thought about you… so much. You have no idea how many times I was about to call you. Write to you. Look for you.

—I’m in the city for a couple of days, he finally says. He hands you a folded piece of paper with his number written on it.