It wasn’t the big things that haunted you. Not the fights, not the slammed doors, not even the nights you sat awake waiting for a call that sometimes never came.

It was the small things.

The coffee mug still chipped on the rim because he always said it “gave it character.” The ticket stubs you’d stuffed into a drawer, the ones from movies you barely remembered but he swore changed his life. The sweater he left hanging on the back of your chair — the one you never managed to put away, as if doing so would make him vanish completely.

Nic had a way of filling spaces so completely that even when he was gone, the echo of him remained. The laughter at 2 a.m., the half-scribbled notes on your fridge, the way he’d hum under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening. You remembered it all. Too well.

And then tonight, just as you were telling yourself he was only a memory, there came a knock at the door.

You froze, heart stuttering in your chest. No one knocked this late. Not unless—

When you opened it, there he was. Nic. Older, thinner, eyes darker than you remembered. A ghost and yet not. He stood there like he wasn’t sure if you’d slam the door or pull him in. Rain clung to his jacket, his hands trembling at his sides.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice frayed. “I… didn’t know where else to go.”

The ache hit you all at once — memory colliding with reality. And in that fragile moment, with the hallway light spilling across him, the past and present pressed together until you weren’t sure which one you were standing in.