Kate stumbled upon him by chance—in the subway tunnel near Victoria Station, where the air was thick with dampness, the scent of cheap instant coffee, busker tunes, and the hurried footsteps of commuters. He stood leaning against the peeling tiles, guitar in hand, singing. Not loudly, not for the crowd—but in a way that pierced straight through the heart. He sang like a man who no longer feared being heard or forgotten. Sang for himself, yet his voice, like a thread, caught on the murmur of the crowd, found her, and etched itself into memory. And she knew him instantly.
A voice from the past.
A voice that once made her pulse quicken, nights stretch endlessly, and hopes burn like the candles she lit alone. A voice she’d spent years drowning out, yet it lived on inside her, tucked into a corner of her mind where everything still rang too clear, too raw.
James.
He wore the same jacket—black, weathered by time, like an old companion of his wanderings. His hair was longer now, stubble thicker, but his eyes still held that restless glint, as if he were always halfway to something he couldn’t explain. She froze. Dug into her purse. Fumbled for loose change. Dropped a few coins into his open guitar case, the clatter echoing like a ghost of their past.
He didn’t look up at first. When he did, he didn’t seem surprised. Just nodded, as if they’d parted yesterday, as if time hadn’t torn their lives to shreds.
“Hello,” he said softly. “You haven’t changed.”
She smiled bitterly. “You have.”
“Life,” he shrugged, and that single motion told his whole story. “It leaves some with their faces intact. Others just get songs.”
“And what did you get?”
“The road. And a dozen songs no one cares about.”
He grinned, but the recklessness she remembered—the kind that once swept her off her feet—was gone. The melody he’d been singing hummed with railway tracks, goodbyes, and the impossibility of return.
“You still sing, then?” she asked, though she already knew.
“Now it’s all I do,” he said, his voice lighter than she’d ever heard it. “It’s honest. No one asks why. No one expects me to be anything else.”
“And that’s enough?”
“Now it is. Before, I was always chasing something bigger. Now I just… live.”
Silence settled. The crowd flowed past, indifferent, the city roaring on, oblivious to the fragile thread that once bound them. Unaware she’d waited for him under lamplight, penned letters he never read, called out into the void. That he’d vanished without a word, like she’d never existed at all.
“I couldn’t stay,” he said suddenly, eyes fixed somewhere distant. “Not making excuses. I was just… hollow. Broken.”
“And now?”
He glanced at his hands, at the guitar strings, grazing them lightly. A faint hum answered, like an echo of something far away.
“Now I at least sing. And I don’t run. That’s something, isn’t it?”
She nodded. Slowly. Carefully. Something shifted inside her—not pain, not anger, just something gentle, almost weightless. As if an old song had started playing again, but no longer dragged her back, no longer made her weep. There was an ache, but without the heaviness she’d carried for years.
“I should go,” she said. “People are waiting.”
He didn’t stop her. Just murmured, barely audible:
“Fancy a cuppa? Just like old times. No past. No promises.”
She looked at him. At the tunnel, the guitar, the eyes still alight with wanderlust. He’d always been like this—in motion, just out of reach, even when he stood beside her.
“Not today, James,” she replied. “Thanks. I don’t do ‘just tea’ anymore. It always ends up being more.”
And she walked. Step after step, surer with each one. Not looking back. As if with every stride, she wasn’t leaving him behind, but the girl who’d waited, hoped, believed.
Ahead—meetings, work, a quiet evening with a book. A life that carried on. No pauses. No second glances.
Sometimes people return. Not to stay. Just to remind you that you’ve already left. That it was the right choice.
She walked away. And for the first time, she felt free.
