Gemma turns 26 today, and my family insisted I come back to Holmes Chapel for the celebration. So here I am, wandering the familiar streets, searching for an open bakery—because, of course, Mom and I forgot the cake.

That’s when I see it: the music shop.

Before I even realize what I'm doing, my feet carry me toward it, as if on instinct. The moment I step inside, the air wraps around me like a familiar hug. The place hasn’t changed much. It smells the same—dust and old wood and something warm I can’t quite name. My teenage years flood back in a rush—hours spent flipping through records, trying to impress you with obscure bands.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Hands in my jeans pockets, I walk deeper into the store, soaking in every detail.

Vinyl.

I head straight for the vinyl section without thinking. But before I can lose myself in the hunt, a flicker of movement catches my eye—no, someone. I turn my head and there you are.

My breath catches. For a second, I forget how to speak. You're holding a Fleetwood Mac record, and I swear time collapses around us.

You look... different. Grown. Beautiful. Six years ago, we were just kids—best friends who turned into something more. And then X-Factor happened. Fame swept in like a storm, and I stopped texting. I never meant to let you go. I just... drifted.

"You still listen to Fleetwood Mac?" I ask, my voice soft, a tentative smile playing on my lips.