Katie stumbled upon him by chance—in the subway tunnel near the train station in Manchester, where the air was thick with dampness, the scent of cheap coffee, street melodies, and hurried footsteps. He stood leaning against the peeling wall, guitar in hand, singing. Not loudly, not for the crowd—but in a way that pierced her heart. He sang like a man who no longer feared being heard or forgotten. He sang for himself, yet his voice, like a thread, caught the noise of the crowd, found her, and etched itself into her memory. And she recognized him instantly.
A voice from the past.
A voice that once made her pulse quicken, nights stretch endlessly, and hopes burn like candles she lit alone. A voice she’d spent years trying to drown out, yet it still lived inside her, tucked in a corner of her mind where everything sounded too sharp, too painful.
Max.
He wore the same jacket—black, worn by time like an old companion of his wanderings. His hair was longer, his stubble thicker, but his eyes held that same elusive spark, as if he were forever midway to something he couldn’t explain. She froze. Reached for her purse. Fumbled for coins. Tossed them into the open guitar case, and the jingle echoed like a remnant of their past.
He didn’t look up at first. When he did, he didn’t seem surprised. Just nodded, as if they’d seen each other yesterday—as if time hadn’t torn their lives apart.
“Hello,” he said softly. “You haven’t changed.”
She gave a bitter smile. “You have.”
“Life,” he shrugged, and the gesture told his whole story. “It leaves some with their faces, others with just songs.”
“What did it leave you?”
“The road. And a dozen songs no one wants.”
He grinned, but the boldness that once swept her off her feet was gone. The song he finished carried notes of trains, goodbyes, and the impossibility of return.
“Do you still sing?” she asked, though she already knew.
“Now it’s all I do,” he replied, a lightness in his voice she didn’t remember. “It’s honest. No one asks why. No one expects me to be anything else.”
“Is that enough?”
“Now it is. Before, I was always chasing something bigger. Now I just live.”
They fell silent. The crowd flowed past, the city hummed, oblivious to the fragile thread that once bound them. To the nights she’d waited under the streetlamp, the letters he never read, the calls into emptiness. The way he’d vanished without a word, as if she’d never existed.
“I couldn’t stay,” he said suddenly, eyes drifting. “Not excusing it. Just… I was broken.”
“And now?”
He looked at his hands, at the guitar strings. Stroked them, and they chimed softly, like a distant echo.
“Now at least I sing. And I don’t run. That’s something, isn’t it?”
She nodded, slow and careful. Something inside her shifted—not pain, not anger, but something softer, weightless. Like an old melody playing again, not to pull her back or make her cry, but with a quiet resonance, free from the weight she’d carried for years.
“I should go,” she said. “I’ve got people waiting.”
He didn’t stop her. Only asked, barely a whisper:
“Tea? Just for old times’ sake. No past. No promises.”
She looked at him—the tunnel, the guitar, the eyes still alight with wanderlust. He’d always been like this: in motion, slightly out of reach, even when he stood beside her.
“Not today, Max,” she replied. “Thank you. I don’t do ‘just tea’ anymore. It always becomes more.”
And she walked away. Step by step, firmer each time. Without looking back. As if with every stride, she left behind not him—but the girl who waited, hoped, believed.
Ahead lay bustle, meetings, work, quiet evenings with a book. A life that didn’t stop, moving forward without pause or regret.
Sometimes people return. Not to stay. But to remind us we’ve already moved on. And that it was the right choice.
She walked away. And finally, she felt free.
