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 instant coffee, busker tunes, and hurried footsteps. He stood leaning against the chipped tiles, guitar in hand, singing. Not loudly, not for the crowd—but in a way that pierced right through her heart. He sang like someone who’d stopped caring whether he was heard or forgotten. Sang for himself, yet his voice, like a thread, wove through the noise, found her, and lodged itself in her memory. And she recognized him instantly.
A voice from the past.
A voice that once made her heart race, turned nights endless, and kept her hopes burning like the candles she lit alone. A voice she’d tried to drown out for years, yet it lived on inside her, tucked in that corner of memory where every whisper is too loud, too sharp.
Max.
He still wore that same jacket—black, weathered by time like an old travel companion. His hair was longer, his stubble thicker, but his eyes held that same restless glimmer, as though he was always mid-journey, halfway to something he could never explain. She froze. Dug into her purse. Fumbled for loose change. Dropped it into his guitar case, and the coins chimed like an echo of what used to be.
He didn’t look up at first. When he did—no surprise. Just a nod, as if they’d seen each other yesterday, as if time hadn’t torn their lives apart.
“Hello,” he said quietly. “You haven’t changed at all.”
She huffed a bitter laugh. “And you’re completely different.”
“Life.” He shrugged, a gesture that told his whole story. “Some people get to keep their face. Others just get the songs.”
“And what did you get?”
“The road. And a dozen songs no one wants.”
He smiled, but the old boldness that once swept her off her feet was gone. The melody he finished playing hummed with train tracks, goodbyes, and the impossibility of return.
“You still sing?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Now it’s all I do,” he answered, his voice lighter than she remembered. “More honest this way. No one asks why. No one expects me to be anything else.”
“And that’s enough for you?”
“Now? Yeah. Before, I was always chasing something bigger. Now I just live.”
Silence fell. The crowd streamed past, oblivious to the fragile thread that once tied them together. Oblivious that she’d waited for him under the streetlamp near her flat, written letters he never read, called a number that rang into emptiness. That he’d vanished without a word, like she’d never existed.
“I couldn’t stay back then,” he said suddenly, gaze drifting. “Not making excuses. Just… I was empty. Broken.”
“And now?”
He looked at his hands, at the guitar strings. Brushed a finger across them, and they chimed softly, like an echo of something long gone.
“Now at least I sing. And I don’t run. That’s something, yeah?”
She nodded. Slowly. Carefully. Inside, something shifted—not pain, not anger, but something softer. Like an old melody playing again, but no longer pulling her backward, no longer making her cry. There was a lightness in her chest, no longer the old weight she’d carried for years.
“I should go,” she said. “People are waiting.”
He didn’t stop her. Just asked, barely above a whisper:
“Tea? Just tea. Like we used to. No past. No promises.”
She looked at him—at the tunnel, the guitar, the eyes still restless with wanderlust. He’d always been like this: moving, slightly out of reach, even when he was close.
“Not today, Max,” she answered. “Thanks. I don’t do *just tea* anymore. It always turns into something more.”
And she walked away. Step by step, firmer each time. Without looking back. As if with every stride, she wasn’t leaving him behind, but the girl who’d waited, hoped, believed.
Ahead—bustle, meetings, work, a quiet evening with a book. A life that kept moving, no pauses, no glances back.
Sometimes people return. Not to stay. Just to remind you that you’ve already moved on. And that it was the right thing.
She walked. And for the first time, she felt free.
