Kate stumbled upon him by chance—in the dank underpass near the railway station in Manchester, where the air hung heavy with the scent of cheap coffee, the murmur of hurried footsteps, and the faint strains of street melodies. He stood leaning against peeling tiles, guitar in hand, singing—not loudly, not for the crowd, but in a way that cut straight to the heart. He sang like a man with nothing left to fear from being heard or forgotten. Singing for himself, yet his voice wove through the clamour, catching her ear, lodging in her memory. And in that instant, she knew him.
A voice from the past.
The voice that once set her pulse racing, made the nights stretch endlessly, and kept hopes burning like candles lit in solitude. A voice she had spent years trying to silence, yet it had lingered, tucked away in some corner of her mind—too sharp, too painful.
James.
He wore the same jacket—black, worn thin by time, like an old companion of his wanderings. His hair was longer, stubble thicker, but his eyes still held that elusive spark, as though he were always mid-journey, always halfway toward something he could never explain. She froze. Fumbled in her purse. Found a few coins and dropped them into the open guitar case, where they clinked like echoes of what had been.
It took him a moment to look up. When he did, he didn’t seem surprised. Just nodded, as if they’d spoken the day before, as if time hadn’t torn their lives apart.
“Hello,” he said quietly. “You haven’t changed.”
She gave a bitter smile.
“You have.”
“Life,” he shrugged, and the gesture carried his whole story. “Some get to keep their face. Others just get songs.”
“And what did you get?”
“The road. And a dozen songs no one wants.”
He smiled, but the defiance that once left her breathless was gone. The melody he finished hummed with the ache of trains, goodbyes, and roads that led nowhere back.
“You still sing?” she asked, though she already knew.
“Now it’s all I do,” he replied, his voice lighter than she remembered. “It’s honest. No one asks why, or expects me to be anything else.”
“And that’s enough?”
“It is now. Before, I was always chasing something bigger. Now I just live.”
They fell silent. The crowd streamed past; the city buzzed on, unaware that a fragile thread had once tied them together. That she had waited for him beneath the lamplight, written letters he never opened, called into the void. That he had vanished without a word—simply gone, as though she had never been.
“I couldn’t stay,” he said suddenly, his gaze drifting. “I’m not making excuses. I was just… empty. Broken.”
“And now?”
He looked at his hands, at the guitar strings. Brushed a finger over them, and they whispered—a distant echo.
“Now at least I sing. And I don’t run. That’s something, isn’t it?”
She nodded—slowly, carefully. Something stirred within her—not pain, not anger, but something softer, almost weightless. Like an old tune playing again, but no longer dragging her back, no longer making her weep. There was an answer in her chest, but without the old weight that had held her down for years.
“I should go,” she said. “I’m expected.”
He didn’t try to stop her. Only asked, almost a whisper—
“Tea? Just tea. Like before. No past. No promises.”
She looked at him—the underpass, the guitar, the eyes that still held the wind of travels. He had always been this way—moving, just out of reach, even when he stood near.
“Not today, James,” she replied. “Thank you. I don’t drink ‘just tea’ anymore. It always turns into something else.”
And she walked away. Step after step, firmer now. Without looking back—as if with each one, she wasn’t leaving him behind, but the girl who had waited, hoped, believed.
Ahead, the bustle awaited—meetings, work, quiet evenings with a book. A life that didn’t pause, didn’t look back.
Sometimes people return. Not to stay. Just to remind you that you’ve already moved on. That it was right to go.
She walked. And at last, she felt free.
