#ethanpayne

The hospital doors hissed shut behind them, sealing off the faint beeping and sterile scent that clung to every corridor. Outside, the light was thin and cold, late afternoon softening toward evening. The Sidemen lingered on the steps in a loose, uneven circle, hands buried in their pockets, the silence between them heavier than it should have been after a charity visit.

Harry stared at the ground, thumbs hooked in his hoodie’s pocket, shoulders drawn in. He’d come to make children smile, to brighten someone else’s day, but somewhere between the laughter and the goodbyes, he’d watched a woman he once knew better than himself look straight through him.

Alina had been polite. Professional. Cold in a way that left bruises. She hadn’t yelled. She hadn’t needed to.

“Alright,” Josh said finally, voice breaking through the quiet. “Am I crazy, or was that doctor really weird with you?”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He’d prayed they wouldn’t notice.

Simon gave him a sidelong glance. “Yeah, man. You know her?”

Harry tried for casual and missed. “It’s nothing.”

None of them bought it.

He shifted, scuffed his shoe against the pavement, the words catching in his throat. “It’s… complicated.”

A pause, then a sigh. “She’s from Guernsey. We grew up together.”

Ethan frowned. “You never mentioned her.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice thinned. “It’s been a long time. She was my best friend. We were—” his jaw tightened, “—together. Before I left for London.”

Josh let out a low whistle. “Well. That explains the arctic chill.”

Tobi clapped him lightly on the back. “You gonna talk to her?”

Harry shook his head. “She doesn’t want to hear anything I have to say.”

“You don’t know that,” Vik offered quietly.

“I do,” Harry said, voice final.

He turned toward the parking lot. The air had cooled into that uncertain hour between day and night, when the sky turned blue-grey and the world began to dim. Behind him, the others fell into quiet conversation, but Harry kept walking. He didn’t look back.

Alina shoved her scrubs into her locker with a force that rattled the metal. The clang echoed too loudly, slicing through the hum of the hospital. Around her, life carried on — nurses swapped shifts, wheels rolled down the hall, monitors beeped on. It was early evening now, the sharp edges of the day softening into the rhythm of the night shift.

She was angry. At him for showing up. At herself for caring that he had. Ten years should have dulled everything — his voice, the way her stomach twisted when he said her name, the image of his face the day he left. But none of it had faded. Her pulse betrayed her; it still remembered.

The air outside had turned cool and violet. She crossed the empty service road and found a bench beneath a flickering streetlamp in the small park beside the hospital. The world was still except for the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of leaves. Peaceful, if she hadn’t been living inside a noise that only she could hear.

Her phone felt heavy. She called before she could talk herself out of it.

“Love?” her mother’s voice came warm and faintly breathless, like she’d been in the middle of folding laundry. “Everything alright?”

Alina closed her eyes. “Yeah. I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

The pause that followed was patient, expectant. “Tell me,” her mother said softly.

“Tell you what?”

“Whatever made you call me in the middle of your shift,” came the calm reply. “You never call without a reason.”

Alina leaned back, the streetlamp’s light brushing her cheek. “He came to the hospital today. Part of a celebrity visit for the kids.”

A small silence. “Who?”

“Harry.” The name cracked slightly. “He called me Nina.”

Her laugh was dry, humourless. “Like no time had passed.”

“And how did that feel?” her mother asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Alina admitted. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

“You don’t have to know,” her mother said. Then, quieter, firmer: “You don’t owe him anything.”

Alina smiled faintly, her eyes on the empty swings swaying in the wind. “I know. It was just… strange. Seeing him again.”

“Go home,” her mother said. “Eat something warm. Sleep.”

“I will,” Alina promised.

When the call ended, she stayed a while longer, breathing until her heartbeat stopped sounding like panic. The light flickered once, and by the time she rose, the last of the sunset was gone.

Home smelled like fabric softener and leftover takeout. The windows fogged slightly from the heater; Edward’s car was parked outside. She climbed the steps, shoulders heavy, and pushed open the door.

“Finally!” Joan called from the couch, eyes on her tablet. “We were about to send a search party.”

“Sorry,” Alina said, dropping her bag near the door. Her voice was small, her energy stretched thin.

From the armchair, Edward turned, controller still in hand, his blond hair a mess. “You’re acting weird.”

"No, I'm not," Alina said, turning to him a little too quick, her voice snappy.

“She’s being cagey,” Matilda said, stepping out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea, her copper hair glowing under the light. “Which means something happened.”

Alina sank into the couch, the cushions sighing under her weight. “I’m fine.”

Edward let out a laugh. “You’re never fine when you say it like that.”

On the rug, Victoria looked up from her laptop, her dark hair slipping over one shoulder as she closed it softly. “What happened? Another stupid parent?”

“No,” Alina said, eyes fixed on the table. “Just… long day.”

Joan glanced up, sharp and unblinking. “Alina. What’s going on?”

Alina’s fingers tugged at her sleeve. She knew her friends were not letting it go, and maybe a part of her was relieved that she was gonna talk about this with someone. “You know, the visitors today — the Sidemen — one of them was someone I knew. From back home.”

“Which one?” Matilda asked, curiosity edging her tone.

Before Alina could answer, Edward gasped. “You knew Harry Lewis and never told me?”

Joan sighed. “How do you even know it was him?”

“He’s from Guernsey!” Edward said, gesturing wildly as if it was something he expected everyone to know. “And you live with me! He’s my favorite Sidemen!” He continued turning her attention back to Alina a look of betrayal on his face.

Alina didn’t blink. “There’s nothing to tell. We grew up on the same street. It was a long time ago.”

Edward stared, unconvinced. “But it’s Harry Lewis.”

“Not everything revolves around your YouTube crush, Ed,” Joan muttered.

“I don’t have a—ow!” Matilda’s foot had clearly found its target. Victoria hid her smile behind her mug, the motion so subtle only Alina caught it.

Victoria set her drink down and leaned forward slightly. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

“I know,” Alina said, softer now. “It just caught me off guard. That’s all.”

Joan tilted her head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Then, after a pause: “Was he important to you?”

“No,” Alina said quickly. Then, quieter: “Yes.”

The room stilled. No one pushed. They just let the silence settle.

Matilda placed a cup in Alina’s hands. “You want to talk about it?”

Alina shook her head. “There’s nothing to talk about. He was my best friend. Then he left. We didn’t keep in touch.”

No one argued. The hum of the house filled the space instead — the soft crackle of the heater, the sound of spoons against mugs. Joan rose after a moment. “I’m getting cake. Anyone else?”

A few murmured yeses followed. Edward, still half turned toward the TV, gave Alina a softer look. “You sure you’re okay?”

She forced a smile, delicate but holding. “I’m fine.”

The words felt thin in the air. Victoria’s eyes flicked toward her, gentle, watchful, the kind of look that said she didn’t believe it but wouldn’t call her out — not tonight. Across the room, Edward caught the glance, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them before he turned back to his controller.

Guernsey, 2014   

"Look," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper as he cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing over the curve of her cheeks with reverence. "I'm not just gonna disappear, alright? You don't have to worry. We'll talk, text... you'll come and visit." He was reassuring her once again that moving to London wasn't going to change anything between them.

But no matter how many times he said it, deep down, she knew things were going to change whether he wanted them to or not.

They sat side by side on the porch swing at the far end of her backyard, wrapped in the warm breath of a summer night. The chair creaked softly beneath them, swaying in a slow rhythm that matched the heaviness of the moment.

His eyes searched hers, desperate to anchor her. When he realized his words weren't convincing, he did the only other thing he could think of. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, and kissed her the way he always had, the way only he could. Sweet, tender, but laced with enough fire to steal the air from her lungs. A kiss that curled into the spaces between her ribs and stayed there.

Alina shifted, angling her body toward him. One hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading through the sun-kissed strands of his blond hair, pulling him impossibly closer. When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, her breath still came uneven.

She tilted her head, lips brushing the sharp edge of his jaw as she whispered, "Don't you dare forget about me just because you got famous now."

Leaning closer, her words now a breath against his ear, she added, "Don't make me hunt you down."

He laughed, but the sound cracked at the edges. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her against his chest. Her head settled naturally in the crook of his neck, and he rested his chin lightly on her hair.

He closed his eyes and breathed her in—vanilla, warmth, and the kind of safety that only ever came with her— Her heartbeat thudded softly against him, steady and real.

It's not possible, he thought. There's no universe where I could forget you. Not with those blue eyes that had made a home in his dreams. Not with that laugh that still made his stomach twist. Not with the memory of her hand pressed to his chest like she belonged there.

But he didn't say any of that. He only murmured, "We'll see."

The porch fell into silence again. The swing rocked lazily beneath them, keeping time with the soft chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. Bit by bit, her breathing slowed, her body becoming heavier against his.

Eventually, her head slipped slightly, her cheek now resting against his shoulder. Her hand, which had been gripping his shirt, fell slack in her lap.

She was asleep.

"I couldn't forget about you if I tried," he whispered, barely audible, like it might shatter something if said too loud.

Carefully, he shifted out from under her, steadying the swing with one hand so it wouldn't jolt her awake. She stirred slightly but didn't wake.

From the armrest, he picked up the blanket they always kept folded there. With slow, deliberate movements, he draped it over her shoulders and tucked it around her legs. Then, for a second, he just stood there—watching her, memorizing her in the hush of the night.

In the dim light of the doctors' lounge, Alina stood near the worn leather couch, arms loosely crossed as if holding herself together. The faint, bitter scent of burnt coffee lingered in the air.

"Earth to Alina!" Edward called out, careful but amused, dragging her out of the fog of memory. He moved around the room with easy energy, a chipped mug in hand, his blond hair sticking up in a dozen directions like he'd been at war with sleep and lost. His bright blue eyes sparkled despite the early hour.

She blinked once, then again, dragging herself back into the present.

"Big day! You're on duty for the Make-A-Wish visit today, right?" he said excitedly.

"Yeah," Alina said flatly, not quite meeting his gaze.

From across the room, the fridge door clicked shut. Victoria leaned back against the counter, smoothie in hand, watching Alina with the kind of look that always seemed to know too much.

"You're meeting the Sidemen, Alina," she said, smiling knowingly. "Maybe try smiling a little."

Alina offered a smile in return, mall, automatic, brittle. It didn't touch her eyes, but Victoria didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she chose not to.

"I'm not really into their stuff," Alina said after a moment, voice casual but clipped. She turned slightly, as if shifting away from the conversation might be enough to bury it.

There was no way she was going to explain.

No way she was going to talk about Harry. Not with her friends. Not here. Not after all those years of trying to forget him of training herself not to flinch at the mention of his name, not to look him up late at night when the past felt too close to sleep.

There was no point in digging up what she had buried so carefully.

She reached for her clipboard, her stethoscope, anything to busy her hands. Then, without another word, she stepped out of the lounge and into the hallway, heading for the pediatric waiting room.

The sterile light of the hospital corridor hit her like a cold wave. She squared her shoulders, spine straightening like armor slipping into place.

Professional. Calm. Distant.

That was who she was now.

And no matter how the memories clawed their way back into her mind, how his voice still echoed sometimes, soft and foolishly sweet—she wasn't going to let him unravel her.

Not again.

The group came into view near the colorful fish tank, clustered awkwardly beneath a mural of sea creatures and cartoon whales. They didn't look like celebrities, just a bunch of young men in hoodies and sneakers, shifting uncomfortably in the too-bright, child-themed lounge.

Alina stood just beyond the threshold, clipboard tucked against her side like a shield. Her eyes scanned the group instinctively; Ethan, Simon, JJ, Tobi, Vik, Josh. She recognized them vaguely, more from the background noise of Edward and Victoria's screens than any personal interest.

And then, leaning casually against the far wall... Harry.

She saw him before he saw her.

His hair was still blond, but darker now. His face had sharpened with time, his jaw more defined, his shoulders broader beneath his hoodie.

But the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other when he was uncomfortable—that was the same. The way his hands disappeared into his pockets like he didn't know what else to do with them, that was still him.

For a split second, Alina considered slipping back out the door, walking away before he could see her. Damn you, Joan, she thought, knowing full well it wasn't her fault. Joan was elbow-deep in surgery today. 

But it was too late now.

"Dr. Taylor!" a nurse called from across the hallway, cheerful and oblivious. "They're ready for you!"

Alina's stomach twisted.

Across the room, Harry turned toward the voice. His eyes landed on her.

And for a heartbeat, the world fell quiet.

He stared, frozen, recognition breaking across his face like sunlight through a storm. "Nina?" he said, voice low, hesitant. As if saying the name might make her vanish.

The sound of it hit her square in the chest. That name, God, she hated it; no, she loved it. But that girl, the one who used to answer to "Nina," didn't exist anymore.

She inhaled, spine straightening like steel sliding into place. Her voice came out even, clipped, cool.

"It's Alina," she said with a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Dr. Alina Taylor. I'll be supervising today's visit."

She turned slightly to address the entire group, her tone professional, neutral. A few of the Sidemen exchanged confused glances, but no one said a word.

Harry hesitated, then gave a sheepish, almost apologetic smile. "Yeah, uh... Sorry."

Alina didn't look at him. She gave a polite nod and pivoted smoothly on her heel.

"Follow me."

And just like that, she turned and began walking down the hall, her coat sweeping behind her like a closing door.

She wouldn't let him see the tremble in her hands. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing her pulse was still echoing with the sound of his voice.

Behind her, the Sidemen murmured among themselves, low jokes and quiet laughter trying to cut the thick air. Harry followed, noticeably quieter than the rest, his footsteps softer, more hesitant.

The tour passed in a blur of linoleum floors and fluorescent lights. Alina moved with practiced ease, her voice smooth and clipped as she outlined protocols, where they could take photos, how often to sanitize, what areas to avoid. She never let her gaze linger where it wanted to.

Especially not on him.

When they reached the pediatric oncology wing, she stopped just outside the doorway, arms folding over her chest like armor.

"This is the most sensitive area," she said, her tone softer now but still firm. "If at any point you need to step out, feel free."

They all nodded, subdued now. Harry's eyes were on her.

She didn't return the look.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, the room came alive.

Laughter. Shouts. The unmistakable sound of hope blooming in small voices. Children lit up at the sight of the guests, eyes wide, smiles breaking through.

Even Alina felt the corners of her mouth tug upward, just slightly, as she watched it unfold—the momentary magic of distraction, of joy.

She kept to the edge of the room, near the door, her presence more shadow than spotlight. Her arms loosened at her sides, but she didn't step closer. Didn't risk proximity.

Still, now and then, she caught it. Harry, glancing her way.

Not intrusive. Not demanding. Just... looking. Like he was trying to find her in this version of herself.

When visiting hours wound down, the children were guided gently back to their rooms. The nurses thanked the Sidemen warmly, with soft voices and grateful smiles. There were handshakes and final photos, promises to come back soon.

Alina stayed by the door, watching it all with a composed expression, hands clasped in front of her.

Collected. Unmoved.

Harry lingered behind as the others filed out, their voices fading down the corridor, replaced by the low hum of machines and the distant beeping of monitors.

He stood in the doorway a moment too long, then took a cautious step forward, his fingers tugging nervously at the frayed cuff of his hoodie.

"Nina," he said, softer this time, like a memory he was afraid might shatter if spoken too loud.

"Don't." It came sharper than she meant it to—too fast, too brittle. She turned her face away, jaw tightening.

He froze, caught mid-step, but didn't retreat. Instead, he shifted, just enough to slip back into her line of sight, like he couldn't bear to be a ghost in her periphery.

"I didn't know you worked here," he said after a pause, voice low, searching. "I mean... if I'd known, I—I wouldn't have—"

"What?" she cut in, arms folding over her chest, tone cool and unreadable. "You wouldn't have come?"

He opened his mouth, eyes wide with something that looked like regret. But she didn't let him speak.

"Doesn't matter," she said, quieter now. "It's not about you. Or me."

For the first time, she really looked at him. Let herself take him in.

He wasn't the boy she remembered—the sunburnt teenager who kissed her on a porch swing and promised to call. He was older now. Taller. A little tired around the eyes. But he wasn't a stranger, either.

His mouth parted like he might say something—apologize, maybe, or explain. But she was done.

"Thank you for coming today," she said, voice smooth but distant. A line drawn in the sand. "The kids really appreciated it. It means a lot."

And then she turned.

Just like that.

Her shoes echoed softly down the corridor as she walked away, coat catching in the breeze of her own momentum. She didn't look back. Not once.

But behind her, she could feel it—that weight of his gaze pressing between her shoulder blades.

And Harry, standing there alone in the silence she left behind, realized something he hadn't let himself feel until now.

Two days later, the air around her still hadn’t cleared. It followed her through the hospital halls, invisible but heavy—the kind of silence people walked around without naming.

Alina moved like clockwork: dark hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck, olive skin brushed by the sterile light, eyes sharp and steady beneath the tired fluorescent glow. She was the image of composure, the kind of woman people trusted instantly, even when she didn’t trust herself. Every movement was deliberate. Every breath measured. She was all control and no chaos, and that made her dangerous—to herself most of all.

Her hands were precise, her tone clipped, her posture straight. She didn’t think about him. Or at least, she tried not to.

But memory is a cruel, insistent thing. Sometimes, in the brief seconds between patients, her mind betrayed her—back to that voice, that name. Nina. Said like a secret. Like it still belonged to him. She hated that it made her chest tighten. So she did what she did best: pushed the thought away, buried it under routine, stitched herself back into the rhythm of the day.

Her friends noticed, of course, they lingered around her, Edward was the worst of them, he kept bringing her cups of tea she never drank, lingering just long enough for Victoria to notice, and for Joan to roll her eyes at both of them.

No one asked outright what was wrong. And somehow, that silence felt heavier than questions ever could.

Alina told herself she didn’t care. But she did.

Harry wasn’t doing much better. He sat slouched in the Sidemen studio, his tall frame folded into the chair like he was trying to disappear inside it. The soft hum of the recording equipment filled the air while a pen spun endlessly between his fingers, a small, restless rhythm that betrayed the stillness in his face. Around him, the rest of the boys were alive and loud, laughter bouncing off the walls. JJ and Ethan were mid-argument about something trivial, Josh was making half-serious jokes to keep the energy high, and Simon was trying to rein them all in. The cameras were rolling, the set lights were harsh, and Harry was somewhere else entirely.

He threw in a few empty responses here and there—an automatic “yeah”, a half-laugh, a reflexive nod—but none of it meant anything. His words were hollow, his smile delayed by a second too long, the telltale sign of a man pretending to be present. His eyes, unfocused, stayed fixed on the middle distance, on something—or someone—far from the bright, noisy world he’d built for himself.

When filming finally ended, Josh elbowed him lightly in the ribs, his tone easy but his gaze sharper than usual. “You’ve been quiet, mate. What’s going on with you?”

Harry sighed, dragging a hand down his face, the sound caught somewhere between exhaustion and frustration. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just tired.”

Ethan, sprawled on the couch and scrolling through his phone, didn’t even look up when he said, “It’s that doctor, isn’t it? What was her name again?”

Harry paused, the pen slipping from between his fingers and clattering onto the desk. “Alina,” he said finally, so softly it was almost a confession.

Josh’s brows rose. He leaned forward, voice lighter now but edged with curiosity. “So, what’s the plan? You gonna talk to her, or just keep sulking like a man who’s lost a war?”

Harry almost smiled at that. Almost. “And what am I supposed to say, Josh? Hey, sorry I disappeared for a decade, broke your heart, and pretended you didn’t exist—but let’s grab a coffee sometime?” The words came sharp, bitter around the edges, as if saying them out loud made the past more real.

Ethan laughed from the couch. “Send flowers. Works on Faith when she’s mad.”

Harry shook his head, but there was something like longing in the movement. This wasn’t a fight to fix with flowers. It wasn’t a missed text or a careless mistake. He hadn’t just left—he’d vanished. He’d made her absence a habit and called it ambition.

“I don’t have her address,” he said quietly, eyes lowering to the pen on the table.

Ethan didn’t look up from his phone. “Send them to the hospital. Problem solved.”

Harry didn’t answer. But the thought stayed with him.

Later that night, long after the others had gone, he sat in the dim light of his living room, scrolling through his phone with the hollow determination of someone searching for redemption in pixels. Dozens of florists. Hundreds of options. He scrolled past roses—too heavy. Lilies—too formal. Tulips—too easy. And then he saw them. Daisies. Simple, bright, forgiving. Her favorite. Or at least, they used to be.

He filled out the order form slowly, rewriting the message twice before stopping. In the end, he chose honesty.

I’m sorry. I’m leaving my number. Please call. I really want to talk. —Harry (+ his number, scrawled at the bottom)

His finger hovered over the “Confirm Order” button longer than he wanted to admit. Then he pressed it, the soft click of his phone echoing louder than it should have.

And then he waited.

Morning blurred into afternoon, and afternoon into night. He checked his phone too often, convincing himself he wasn’t. Every vibration made his pulse jump, only to drop again when it wasn’t her. The studio called. Filming continued. Life, as it always did, moved forward.

But she didn’t call.

And by the time the second night rolled around, the only sound in Harry’s flat was the quiet hum of regret—a noise he’d gotten far too used to living with.

Saturday night settled over London, thick and heavy, the kind of darkness that clings to your skin like humidity. It was the kind of night that made the city feel too alive, every sound too sharp, every light too bright. Harry sat on his sofa, phone in hand, the screen dimmed and still showing no new messages. His thumb hovered uselessly over the last text he’d sent—a number, a name, a simple plea that hadn’t earned him an answer.

Josh’s voice cut through the quiet, crackling down the line like a command. “You’re coming.”

Harry sighed, running a hand over his face, eyes closing against the sound. “I’m not in the mood.”

“That’s exactly why you’re coming,” Josh shot back, all cheer and zero sympathy.

Harry let out another sigh, heavier this time, the kind that carried the weight of things he couldn’t explain. But he didn’t argue. A night out had to be better than sitting in silence, waiting for a reply that wasn’t coming. Maybe if he moved fast enough, drank enough, stood in a crowd loud enough, he could drown the ache for a few hours.

The club was a blur of sound and color, tucked deep into the heart of central London. The bass thudded through the floorboards, lights flickering like electric veins slicing the dark. Perfume and sweat mingled in the air; voices rose and vanished beneath the music’s pulse. Bodies swayed shoulder to shoulder, strangers pressed close enough to share breath. It was the kind of chaos designed to make you forget.

Josh led the way, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. A bouncer unclipped a velvet rope, and they slipped through into the inner circle—a low table already surrounded by familiar faces. JJ was halfway through a story that had Vik doubled over with laughter, Tobi lifted two fingers in greeting, and Ethan waved them over with his drink.

Faith, seated next to Ethan, was the first to notice Harry’s expression. “You look miserable,” she called over the music, her smile bright enough to belong somewhere sunnier. She shoved a drink into his hand before he could refuse.

Harry took it, offering a ghost of a smile that didn’t quite land. “Thanks,” he said, voice dry enough to evaporate in the noise. He brought the glass to his lips, but the taste barely registered.

He leaned back against the leather seat, letting the music try to fill the empty spaces in his head. Lights blurred against his vision—red, blue, gold—but none of it reached him. He could hear the laughter, feel the rhythm beneath his feet, smell the familiar haze of alcohol and perfume. And still, none of it touched the part of him that had been hollow since the moment he’d seen her again.

Everywhere he looked, there was motion. The kind of life that once used to thrill him. Now, it only reminded him of how still he felt inside. He could almost hear her voice in the back of his mind—steady, measured, quiet. He’d left her behind, but somehow she’d taken everything that mattered with her.

And sitting there, surrounded by noise and light and people who cared enough not to ask, Harry realized he could drown in a room full of sound and still hear her name echoing like the only thing that mattered.

Alina stood before her mirror, eyeliner steady in her hand, the dark line drawn with a surgeon’s precision. The apartment buzzed around her, full of noise and perfume and laughter—the rare kind of chaos that only happened when all five of them had the next day off. It felt like a small miracle, a cosmic alignment too good to waste.

The idea had been Joan’s, obviously. She was already half-ready before anyone else had even said yes, her dirty-blonde hair falling in smooth, deliberate waves that caught the light each time she moved. “We’re going out,” she’d declared, one heel on, the other dangling from her hand. “Proper fun. Bad decisions. Worse dancing. Non-negotiable.”

Victoria was the soft chaos that followed. Her warm brown skin glowed against the dim light as she drifted between rooms with her usual, unhurried grace, curls bouncing freely around her face. She appeared behind Alina and caught a small strand of her dark hair, twisting it into a loose braid. “This gives club energy,” she said with a grin that made her eyes sparkle. “Lipstick, ID, low expectations. You’re ready.” She handed Alina a glittery clutch, as if it were a prescription.

Matilda arrived next, red hair gleaming in the mirror as she rummaged through the mess on the dresser for earrings. Her freckles dusted her skin like punctuation marks on a sentence that never ended, and her grin was so wide it was practically contagious. “We’re going to regret this tomorrow,” she said, voice lilting with delight.

“Then it’s worth doing,” Joan replied, snapping her compact shut.

Edward appeared in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, blond hair still damp from the shower. He tugged at the cuff of his shirt, already looking uncomfortable in clothes that actually fit. “This feels like a date,” he muttered, frowning at his reflection in the hall mirror.

“With yourself,” Joan quipped, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her tone was flat, but her smirk gave her away.

By the time the Uber arrived, the apartment was a whirlwind of perfume, laughter, and last-minute touch-ups. Victoria ended up sprawled across their laps in the back seat, her laughter melting into Matilda’s as the car hit a bump. Joan scrolled on her phone, pretending not to smile, while Edward tried to keep his drink from spilling as he passed it between them. Alina sat in the middle, surrounded by warmth and noise and life, and for the first time in weeks, she felt her chest ease.

A real smile found her lips—unforced, unpolished, real. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad.

The club wasn’t special, which made it perfect. The floor was sticky, the lights flashed like lightning caught in a loop, and the music was a little too loud. It was the kind of place designed for forgetting—faces blurred by movement, hours melting together in sound and color.

They claimed a booth near the dance floor, coats tossed into a heap, heels tapping against the edge of the seat. The air smelled like rum and something floral; the bass pressed against their ribs.

“To bad ideas!” Matilda shouted, raising her shot glass high.

“To bad ideas!” the rest of them echoed, laughter spilling over the music.

The liquor burned easy, the warmth spreading faster than any logic could stop it. Joan’s sharp eyes softened under the light, her usual composure traded for a rare, teasing smile. Victoria’s curls bounced as she swayed to the beat, soft laughter slipping out between verses of the song. Edward leaned into the table, that bright, boyish grin tugging at his mouth as he watched them all.

Alina threw her head back and laughed—bright, sudden, real. The sound cut through the noise for just a moment, catching in her throat like a spark. It startled her, how easy it felt. How light. For the first time in weeks, she felt something crack open inside her chest—small, but real.

Just enough for something honest to slip through. Just enough to believe, for one night, that she could forget.

Harry knocked back his drink, the burn trailing down his throat like something he deserved. Regret always tasted better with whiskey—it lingered longer, too. The low buzz under his skin was beginning to hum, soft and useless, doing nothing to quiet the noise in his head.

Across the table, Faith, Freya, and Talia were a blur of light and movement, caught in the pulse of the music. Their laughter slipped easily into the air, all warmth and noise and life. JJ and Ethan were halfway through an argument—football, from the sounds of it—voices loud, hands slicing through the air with exaggerated fury. Somewhere in the corner, Vik was recording it all on his phone, probably already drafting a caption in his head.

Freya returned first, hair sticking to her temples, cheeks flushed with effort and champagne. She took one look at Harry—slouched deep into the booth, glass dangling from his fingers—and arched a brow. “You look like someone dragged you out of your coffin.”

“I feel like it,” he muttered, not lifting his eyes.

She rolled hers and disappeared back into the crowd. He didn’t notice her go. His gaze had already slipped past her, skimming the edges of the dance floor where the lights stuttered and changed like the beat itself was gasping for air.

And then—he saw her.

It was instant, involuntary. The noise around him fell away, muffled by the sudden static in his chest. Blue eyes, dark hair, skin that caught the light like something he remembered touching once in another life. She stood at the edge of the crowd, a drink in her hand, head tilted toward the blonde beside her. She was laughing—open, unguarded—and it hit him like a collision.

Harry went still.

The club’s haze wrapped around her like smoke. The green of her dress gleamed under the strobe, short enough to make his chest tighten, dipping low enough to remind him of things he’d sworn he’d forgotten. Her hair fell in soft, deliberate waves, brushing her shoulders when she turned. Her body moved with that quiet kind of confidence he’d never seen in her before—no hesitance, no apology. She’d become someone he didn’t recognize and couldn’t stop staring at.

He blinked, half expecting the image to dissolve. It didn’t.

He couldn’t look away.

Alina hadn’t seen him. She didn’t know that, somewhere across the room, the ghost of her past was drinking her in like penance. She wasn’t thinking about the flowers he’d sent, the folded card tucked quietly into her desk drawer, or the number written at the bottom in his unmistakable scrawl. Tonight, she wasn’t fighting the urge to call. Tonight, she was someone else.

Her friends had pulled her to the dance floor, arms looped around shoulders, drinks pressed into waiting hands. The music swallowed them whole, a single heartbeat shared between five different lives. Victoria and Edward were lost in their own orbit, faces close, their easy teasing having finally tipped into something softer, more dangerous. Joan and Matilda were shouting over the bass, hair sticking to their skin, eyeliner smudged in the best possible way.

Alina was at the center of it—hips moving to the rhythm, laughter spilling from her lips, tequila burning bright on her tongue. The world around her blurred into light and sound and heat. For once, there was no before, no after, no ache waiting at the door.

But then—something shifted. A prickle at the back of her neck. The faintest shiver crawling up her spine. It was subtle, but she felt it. That pull, that instinct that had never lied to her. She paused mid-step, heartbeat stuttering against the music’s pulse, and glanced over her shoulder.

Nothing.

Just the chaos of strangers, all movement and light. The air was thick with perfume and sweat. No one was looking at her. Not really.

She turned back, exhaled, and forced herself to believe it.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, raised her glass, and let the lights hit her just right. The bass rolled through her, the kind of rhythm that made it impossible to think. Her body moved easily, fluid, surrendering to the sound. And for the first time in months, maybe years, Alina laughed—truly laughed—without calculation, without caution.

Tonight, she was here. She was electric. She was alive. And she was free.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

But somewhere, tucked between the pulse of the music and the beat of her own heart, a quiet voice whispered in the dark:

It won’t be this easy forever.

The night still trembled with the bass bleeding through the walls, the sound muffled but alive, like a heart refusing to die. Outside, London’s air bit at Alina’s bare skin—a cold, clean kind of ache that she welcomed. It grounded her, stripped away the remnants of heat and noise clinging to her from the club. She stepped into the alley behind the building, exhaling a breath that turned white in the dark. Her fingers dug through her bag until they found the soft crinkle of cigarette paper. The lighter flared once, a sharp spark against the night, and for a second, the amber glow painted her face in soft light. The smoke curled up into the sky, twisting toward the faint outline of stars barely visible beyond the haze. The first drag stung her throat, but she took it anyway—the burn was honest, and she could live with honest things. She leaned back against the wall, the brick cool against her spine, and stared somewhere between the rooftops and the sky, caught in the quiet that only ever came when she was alone.

She didn’t hear the door open.

“Since when do you smoke?”

The voice came like an old echo—too familiar to be shocking, too sharp to ignore. Harry. He was always where she didn’t want him, always showing up at the worst possible time.

“It wasn’t a habit you liked,” he said, stepping closer, hands buried in his pockets as if to keep them from shaking. His voice was softer than the night, but it still found her.

She said nothing.

“You used to gag at the smell,” he added. “Wouldn’t even walk near someone smoking. You said it made your eyes sting.”

She turned toward him, a flicker of defiance in her gaze. The corner of her mouth curved into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so sharp. “Changed my mind,” she said, and took another drag, slow and deliberate, before exhaling smoke in his direction.

The words hit like a slap wrapped in silk.

Harry didn’t move. The thin orange glow of her cigarette illuminated the curve of her cheek, the shimmer of the dark green dress that clung to her like a secret. The girl he used to know—the one who laughed until she cried, who believed in forever—was still there somewhere, but she wasn’t the same. Her edges had sharpened. Her silence had learned to bite.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice low, measured. The smoke curled around her words before fading into the dark.

“I just…” His throat worked around the words. “I don’t know where to start.”

Alina didn’t move. The city’s hum filled the silence he couldn’t.

“Since the hospital,” he went on quietly, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. About what changed.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then took one last drag, eyes soft but unreadable. “A lot.”

The answer landed like the end of a conversation, but she didn’t look away. Her expression stayed calm, composed, but her pulse betrayed her, flickering beneath her skin like a live wire.

Harry stepped closer, his voice rough with hesitation. “I always thought I’d see you again one day. I hoped I would. Just not like this.”

Alina’s lips twitched into something tired and wry. “It’s been a decade. Sorry I didn’t live up to your fantasy.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I just—” He sighed, the sound brittle. “I missed you. You were my best friend. I know I messed up. I’m not asking you to forgive me. Just… maybe a chance to start over.” His voice cracked then, softer, stripped of everything he used to hide behind. “I’ll beg if I have to.”

She blinked, her breath catching. The words didn’t sound like his—they sounded too raw, too unguarded. “Do it then,” she said before she could stop herself, sharp, reckless, a defense dressed as cruelty. “You said you’d beg. Go on.”

She expected him to scoff, to throw it back in her face. But he didn’t. He stared at her for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, then looked up at the sky and laughed under his breath—quiet, broken, disbelieving. And then he did it.

He dropped to his knees.

The sight knocked the breath from her chest. “Harry—what the hell are you doing?”

“Begging,” he said simply. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, heavy and sincere.

A few people passing by slowed, their eyes flicking toward them. Alina’s stomach dropped. “Get off the bloody ground,” she hissed, stepping forward, her hands out as if she could pull the absurdity out of the air.

“No,” he said. “Not until you say yes.”

“Harry, people are watching.”

“I don’t care.”

“Jesus Christ. Fine!” Her voice snapped like a live wire. She grabbed his arms, tugging him up, and when he finally rose, their hands brushed—just barely, but enough to make her forget how to breathe.

They stood there, close enough to feel the ghost of warmth between them. Neither spoke. The sounds of the city—the hum of engines, laughter spilling from the club—folded around their silence like static.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said finally, her tone softening against her will. “But fine. Monday. One o’clock. Café next to the hospital. Don’t be late.”

She pointed at him, the gesture sharp, an anchor for the chaos she felt.

He smiled—a small, uneven thing that looked almost painful. “I won’t.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world held still, suspended between what was gone and what might still be left.

And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like everything between them was ruined beyond repair.

Just cracked.

Monday came quicker than she expected. By the time Alina stepped off the curb, the London sky had settled into its usual pale grey, and the chill in the air made her tug her coat tighter around her shoulders. It was just past 1 PM.

She told herself it was just coffee. Just closure,  just a conversation.

But she wasn't sure anymore why she had said yes. She could've walked away. But instead, here she was, spine straight against the wind, heart doing laps in her chest.

The bell above the café door chimed softly as she stepped inside. Instantly, warmth wrapped around her—coffee beans, cinnamon, distant chatter. She scanned the room, fingers clenched around her bag strap.

Then she saw him.

Back corner table. He sat with his elbows braced on the edge, phone in his hand, one leg bouncing nervously beneath the table. His hair was messy, flopping over his forehead like it always did when he didn't bother to fix it. He was chewing at his lower lip, a habit she remembered all too well.

For a beat, she didn't move. Let herself watch him. Let the familiarity sting.

When she finally approached, he looked up. He straightened slightly, slipping his phone into his coat pocket. His knee still bounced.

"Hey," he said, quiet, almost sheepish.

"Hi." Her reply came clipped, cooler than she meant. She saw it hit him—his mouth pressed into a thin line, his shoulders tensing slightly. But he didn't flinch or pull back. He just nodded and gestured toward the seat across from him.

She slid into the chair, setting her bag on the ground beside her. The silence stretched. The last time they sat across from each other like this, they had been different people.

They ordered drinks. She stirred hers slowly, watching the milk swirl into gold. He didn't touch his right away.

Harry kept glancing at her, then looking away when she caught him. The back-and-forth flicker of guilt and nerves. He wasn't used to this version of her—quiet, distant, unreadable. She'd been daylight once. Laughter tucked behind every word. Now she was cold, and he didn't quite know how to reach her.

She didn't offer small talk. She didn't ask how he'd been.

She waited.

He cleared his throat and leaned in slightly, resting his arms on the table.

"Look, Alina," he began, voice soft. "I meant what I said."

She didn't react. Just watched him. Let him speak.

"I know this probably won't change anything," he continued. "And I'm not here to give you excuses. I just... I think you deserve to hear it from me. All of it."

She kept her face still, but the breath caught behind her ribs. She had spent so long trying not to want this, trying not to wonder why. Now, here he was. 

The café blurred around her. The sounds, the warmth, the clink of mugs all faded as her mind slipped back to the last time that day at the park.

Guernsey, 2014

They sat beneath the old willow tree in the park they'd known since they were kids, the one with the rusted swings and half-faded hopscotch lines still etched into the concrete. The autumn air and the quiet hum of the wind played like a lullaby around them. 

Harry leaned back against the tree trunk, arms loosely draped over his knees, watching the light shift through the branches. His hair fell into his eyes, catching the last of the light. He hadn't said much since they arrived. Just small things. Comments about how the tree was still leaning too far left. How the slide had always squeaked like that. How weird it was that the benches looked smaller now.

Alina was lying beside him in the grass, arms folded beneath her head, staring up at the sky like it had answers. Alina let him talk. She listened to every word. But she knew what he wasn't saying.

"So..." she finally said, voice too light to be casual, "You're leaving tomorrow."

Harry didn't look at her. His fingers toyed with a blade of grass, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. "Yeah."

The word hung between them like smoke.

"You weren't gonna say goodbye ?"

He let out a breath, sheepish. "Was thinking about it."

She turned her head toward him, one brow raised. "Coward."

A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Silence.

"I wasn't avoiding it," he said, voice quiet. "I just didn't know how to say it without feeling like it was... goodbye."

Alina sat up slowly, brushing grass from her arms, her knees drawn to her chest. 

He turned to look at her, and she met his eyes—steady, clear, unwavering. There was something in her expression, soft around the edges but sharpened by steel. She wasn't going to cry, not now.

"I'm not saying it is goodbye," he said, suddenly desperate. "We'll talk. I'll text. You'll visit."

"Sure." She said it easily. Too easily. And smiled.

That smile wrecked him more than any tears would have.

He shifted toward her, his hand reaching out before he could stop himself, fingers curling beneath her chin. He tilted her face to his.

"I mean it," he murmured. 

"Good," she said. Her voice was calm, even. 

Then, softly, with a tilt of her head and a hint of mischief, she added, "Because I'm really bad at chasing people. I've got terrible cardio."

That made him laugh—quiet, shaky, but real. And she smiled too, but this time it didn't quite reach her eyes.

He leaned in and kissed her—slow, reverent. Like they had all the time in the world.

And for a moment, it almost felt like they did.

They didn't say anything else after that. They sat there beneath the willow tree, pressed together in the hush of the night, holding onto something that wasn't ready to be broken.

And when she walked home later, alone, she didn't look back.

Because if she did—if she let herself believe it was goodbye—she might've crumbled.

London, 2025

"It wasn't because I didn't care," Harry began, his voice low, eyes fixed on the coffee cooling between his hands. "It wasn't because I didn't love you anymore."

Alina didn't blink, didn't fidget. Her hands rested around her cup, unmoving, though the caramel steam rose steadily, warming the space between them like a breath held too long.

"It was... everything," he said, voice unsteady. "I don't even know how to explain it. When I left, it felt like I stepped into another world. One where I didn't recognize myself anymore."

He looked up briefly, his gaze searching her face, but she gave him nothing—just silence, steady and patient.

"I chased what I thought I wanted, fame, money, attention. And I got it. But I got lost in it, too. The parties, the people, the pressure... It all moved so fast. I didn't know how to slow down. I was so far from who I used to be... from the person I was when I was with you."

Harry paused, his shoulders sagging. He rubbed the back of his neck, restless now.

"And you... I couldn't let you see that. I didn't want you to watch me spiral. You were always... good. Real. The one good thing I had. And I couldn't bring you into that mess. I thought I was protecting you."

His words hovered, fragile in the quiet. Alina didn't speak, but something in her chest softened. She hadn't expected this version of him—the raw, stripped-down truth.

Harry exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, then leaned forward, arms folded on the table.

"I thought if I just stopped calling, if I disappeared completely, it would be easier for you. I convinced myself that was the kind thing to do."

Alina took a breath—quiet, measured. She still hadn't touched her drink. Her shoulders, once tight, lowered slightly Her voice, was even, but laced with years of hurt.

"I used to think about you," she said. "Wonder if you were happy. If you ever thought about me. I tried to hate you, for how easily you let go, how I felt like I didn't matter anymore. Like I was just... gone from your life. Replaced."

Her fingers traced the rim of her cup, eyes dropping to it as if it held the words she couldn't say out loud.

"But I couldn't hate you. Not really. Because I didn't understand. I didn't get why you did it."

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Harry said quickly, guilt flooding his face. "I know that doesn't fix anything. I know I don't deserve forgiveness. But it was never about you, Alina. Not once."

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her emotions in check.

"It's been a decade, Harry," she said. "Ten years of silence. Ten years where I had to build a life from scratch. Alone."

He dropped his gaze again, nodding slowly. "I know. And I'm proud of you. I probably don't have the right to say that, but I am."

A silence fell, thick with everything they hadn't said for ten years. It wasn't uncomfortable—just heavy. Earned.

Then, her voice came again, quieter this time.

"You said you needed time. That, things were too complicated to be in a relationship. And I believed you." She lifted her gaze. "I thought maybe we'd still talk. Maybe you'd come back when you were ready. But then... a month later, there you were. With someone else."

She didn't look at him as she said it, but she didn't need to.

"That felt personal," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Like it wasn't about timing. It was about me."

Harry closed his eyes, pain flickering across his face. "I was scared," he admitted. "I'd already broken so much, and I thought if I came back, I'd break you too. So I did what cowards do—I ran. I filled the silence with things that didn't matter. With people who didn't matter."

Alina let out a dry breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. "You think that didn't hurt? That people didn't ask what happened between us like I had the answers?" She shook her head. "The pity... the looks... I didn't know what to say. Because I didn't even know why."

He looked up again, eyes meeting hers directly this time.

"I know," he said. "And I was selfish. Blind. For not realizing sooner. For making you carry the silence alone." He leaned in, voice softer now. "But I'm here now. And I want to make it up to you. I miss you, Alina. I really do."

They stayed that way for a moment, not speaking—just sitting across from each other, surrounded by everything they used to be.

Then Alina sat up a little straighter, her eyes steady but not cold.

"You know I can't just forget. I can't just forgive you because you're sorry. That's not how this works."

"I know," Harry said, quiet but certain. "I'm not asking to go back. I'm not asking for anything... except a chance not to be strangers again."

She studied him, and for once, there was no mask. No flash of charm. Just Harry. Tired, older, but honest.

Finally, she gave a slow nod. "Okay. One day at a time."

His shoulders eased a little, lips curling into a small, cautious smile. "One day at a time."

The promise didn’t follow her out of the café.

Alina stepped back onto the pavement with the taste of caramel still lingering on her tongue, the London afternoon pressing in around her as if nothing had shifted at all. Traffic lights changed with their usual mechanical indifference. A bus hissed past, brakes screeching softly as it pulled in at the stop, and somewhere further down the road a siren cut through the air — distant, unbothered, entirely uninterested in the quiet reckoning she had just left behind. She drew her coat tighter around herself and turned towards the hospital, spine straight, pace measured, folding the conversation carefully away inside her — not denied, not dismissed, simply set aside in the place she reserved for things that could not yet be solved. There would be time to think later. There always was. For now, she walked.

By the time evening arrived, the day had stretched itself thin.

The hospital hours dragged on endlessly, not because of chaos, but because of accumulation. Alina spent the next ten hours exactly where she always did, moving between paediatric rooms that felt too small for the fear they contained, her hands steady over bodies still growing into themselves, her voice deliberately softened when she spoke to parents whose eyes searched her face for certainty, for reassurance, for something solid to hold onto. Paediatric surgery did not allow for emotional distance; it demanded precision, yes — sharp, unforgiving accuracy — but it also demanded presence, the kind that stayed with you long after gloves were stripped away, charts were signed, and you told yourself the day was done. She consulted with specialists, adjusted surgical plans, reassessed children who were healing slower than expected and others who were recovering faster than anyone dared hope, each decision heavy because none of them were theoretical. These were futures still forming beneath her hands.

By the time the clock edged towards five, her body was a tight coil of held breath and disciplined posture, muscles aching beneath scrubs that no longer felt like fabric so much as a second skin she couldn’t quite remove. Exhaustion settled deep in her bones — not the kind that begged for sleep, but the kind that came from carrying responsibility without ever setting it down. Her mind refused to slow, replaying vitals, conversations, the careful calibrations of tone she’d made all day long, and even now fragments of the café tried to surface at the edges of her thoughts — the way Harry’s hands had shaken around his cup, the look in his eyes when he spoke — but she pushed them back. Later.

Edward was waiting by the exit, shifting his weight, coat half-zipped, phone idle in his hand, and when he saw her he lifted his head with an expression that mixed relief and familiarity. “Finally,” he said. “I was starting to think paediatrics swallowed you whole.” She shot him a tired, sharp look. “You say that like it isn’t my entire job.” He grinned and fell into step beside her, shrugging. “You disappear in there. Like you merge with the ward.” She didn’t deny it.

Outside, the cold London air bit at her cheeks — sharp, clean, bracing — and she welcomed the sting for the way it grounded her, reminded her there was a world beyond fluorescent lights and measured breaths. They walked to the car in companionable silence, the kind that didn’t need filling, the silence of people who understood what it meant to leave parts of themselves behind at work and pick them up again later, if at all.

The flat greeted her with the familiar smell of stale coffee and leftover takeaway, not elegant but honest, lived-in in a way that felt forgiving. Matilda and Joan were sprawled across the sofa beneath heavy blankets, limbs tangled in shared exhaustion, a bowl of popcorn sitting between them mostly untouched while the television murmured in the background, more atmosphere than entertainment. Joan lifted a hand without looking away. “You’re back.” “Yeah,” Alina said quietly. “Finally.” Matilda stretched, yawning. “How was today?”

Alina paused — just long enough to be noticeable. Edward caught it instantly, freezing halfway through shrugging off his coat. “Oh no. That pause is never good.” She blinked at him, feigning innocence. “What pause?” “The one where something happened and you’re pretending it didn’t,” he said. “Out with it.” She rolled her eyes, but the faint smile that surfaced betrayed her, and instead of answering she moved into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and let the moment stretch — not avoidance, just control. “I had coffee with Harry,” she said, carefully casual.

The room reacted at once. Matilda bolted upright. “You did what?” Joan dropped the blanket entirely. “Sit down. Now. Start from the beginning.” Before Alina could respond, the front door swung open and Victoria stumbled in, cheeks flushed from the cold, scarf slipping loose from her shoulders. “Remind me why I thought cardiology was a good idea,” she groaned. “I should’ve been a florist. No codes. Just flowers.” She stopped short, taking in the room. “Why do you all look like something detonated?” “Alina had coffee with Harry,” Matilda said flatly. Victoria froze, then decisively said, “I need a drink,” and Edward passed her a glass of wine as if it had been rehearsed.

All eyes turned back to Alina. She finally sat, folding her legs beneath her, glass steady in her hands, taking a sip before speaking — not because she needed it, but because it anchored her. She explained how Harry had run into her at the club, how he’d said he wanted to talk, how he hadn’t sounded rehearsed, how flowers had arrived at the hospital, and how eventually they’d met at the café near work. They leaned in instinctively as she spoke. She told them it had been awkward at first, painfully so, that he hadn’t known where to look and she hadn’t known which version of him she was sitting across from, but that eventually he’d started talking — and for the first time in years, they actually had.

Victoria’s voice softened when she asked what he’d said, and Alina hesitated, not because she couldn’t remember, but because the words still carried weight. She told them he’d apologised, that he hadn’t wanted her to see him fall apart, that disappearing had felt easier than explaining, and silence settled over the room, heavy but unhurried. Edward exhaled slowly, calling it devastating. Matilda admitted she hadn’t realised they’d been that close. Joan squeezed Alina’s hand and told her she’d deserved more than silence.

When Victoria asked what happened next, Alina stared into her glass and admitted she didn’t know. Her voice stayed steady, but something beneath it shifted as she spoke about the anger, the years she’d thought he’d simply stopped caring, the times she’d blamed herself and wondered if she’d asked for too much while he’d been trying to survive. She swallowed and said that now she understood it hadn’t been about her at all — he’d been hurting, and he hadn’t known how to let her in.

No one rushed to fix it. No one tried to make it neat. Matilda reminded her she was allowed to feel conflicted. Edward said understanding didn’t erase damage. Joan told her that closure didn’t mean she owed him anything — only that she got to decide what happened next. Alina nodded slowly. She hadn’t decided yet, but she felt held — not fixed, not pushed, just seen.

The night softened after that. Edward launched into a story about a Tinder date so catastrophic it bordered on fiction, Matilda recounted a battle with a scrub nurse and a surgical complication that refused to cooperate, and laughter crept back into the flat, tentative at first, then real. Alina laughed with them, even as part of her remained unfinished, knowing the conversation with Harry wasn’t over and that there were still things left to say and feelings she hadn’t yet allowed herself to fully touch.

But for now, surrounded by people who stayed, she let herself rest in the moment, and for the first time in a long while she didn’t feel alone — a quiet certainty she knew she could carry back with her tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Harry stumbled into his house, letting the door fall shut behind him with a dull click that echoed louder than it should have. He crossed the entryway on autopilot, dropped his keys into the ceramic dish by the door, and stood there for a second too long, as if waiting for something else to happen — some noise, some interruption, something to fill the sudden quiet. Nothing did. The silence pressed in, thick and uninvited, settling into the corners of the room. He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering briefly before unlocking the screen, already knowing what he was looking for.

The Sidemen group chat was blowing up, messages stacked in layers from earlier in the afternoon, names flashing faster than he could read them. He scrolled once, then typed.

The steakhouse was tucked away on a quiet downtown corner, dimly lit and unassuming, the kind of place that felt deliberately removed from the rest of the city. Inside, the air was warm and heavy with the scent of grilled meat, the low hum of voices blending into something almost soothing. No cameras. No fans. No questions. Just familiarity contained within four walls, safe and private.

They slid into a large leather booth at the back, shoulders brushing as they settled in, jackets shrugged off and draped carelessly beside them. Pints were already waiting, condensation gathering and dripping onto the table, rings forming beneath the glasses. Burgers, ribs, fries followed soon after — indulgent, excessive, comforting. The leather cracked softly beneath their weight, the low amber light casting warm halos over worn wood, making the table feel smaller, the space more intimate, like a pocket cut out of the night just for them.

Simon raised his glass first, grin wide and unapologetic. “To Harry,” he announced, voice thick with teasing pride, “for finally growing a pair and talking to her.”

The reaction was immediate and loud. Cheers erupted. Fries were flung recklessly. JJ whooped like they’d just won something. Ethan banged the table, laughing, the sound sharp and bright.

Harry rolled his eyes but lifted his glass anyway, smiling despite himself. The rim was cold against his lip. He drank, then set it down with a quiet thunk, exhaling slowly, as if trying — and failing — to ease the tight knot still lodged in his chest.

As the food arrived and the first edge of hunger dulled, the energy shifted. The laughter softened, conversation slowing, looping back — inevitably — to her. To Alina. To Nina. Her name sounded different spoken aloud, like something that had existed privately for too long and was now being tested in open air. None of them, until a week ago, had even known she existed.

“So what did you say?” Josh asked, leaning in, curiosity overtaking disbelief. “After all this time, what do you even start with?”

Harry pushed a fry around his plate, watching it drag a red line through ketchup. “I told her the truth,” he said finally. “No excuses. Just… why I disappeared. Why I ghosted her. I didn’t ask for anything. I just told her everything.” He paused, throat tightening slightly. “She let me say it all. Even the ugly parts. She didn’t interrupt.”

A brief silence followed. Not heavy. Just thoughtful.

“She said we’d take it one day at a time,” he added, a half-smile tugging at his mouth — fragile, uncertain — like he didn’t quite believe he’d been given even that much.

JJ snorted. “Sounds like you’re on probation, mate.”

“Feels like it,” Harry replied, the laugh that followed softer than usual, not quite reaching his eyes. His thumb tapped against the side of his glass, rhythmic, restless.

Then something shifted.

Josh leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, voice lowering into something more real. “Can I ask something?”

Harry looked up. “Sure.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell us about her?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly unsure where to look. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to,” he said slowly. “I just… couldn’t.”

“Why?” Freya asked, gently.

He looked down at his hands, fingers flexing once before stilling. “Because she wasn’t a story I wanted to share. She was… mine. The part of my life that existed before all this.” He gestured vaguely at the table, at the world they now lived in. “Before the channel. Before fans. Before cameras in my face. She knew me when I was just… me.”

The silence that followed was unhurried. No one rushed to fill it.

Then Faith spoke, carefully. “Harry… you know it’s been years, right? She didn’t stop living when you left.”

He glanced up. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…” Faith hesitated, then continued, voice steady. “What if she moved on?”

The words landed hard, cracking something open in his chest. Ethan shifted beside him, clearly wanting to step in, not quite knowing how.

“I’m not saying it to be cruel,” Faith added. “You said it yourself — she’s beautiful. Brilliant. A surgeon, for God’s sake. You really think no one else has been in love with her? That no one else showed up when you didn’t?”

Harry hadn’t let himself think about it. Not fully. And now that he was, his chest felt too tight, like something heavy had settled there and refused to move.

“What if she has someone else?” he asked, voice rougher now.

“Then you respect it,” Ethan said immediately, firm and unwavering. “If you care about her, that’s non-negotiable.”

Harry nodded slowly, fingers curling around the base of his glass. He didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to.

Simon leaned back, arms crossed, studying him quietly. “If you want to be in her life now,” he said, “you’ve got to show her that.”

“Do you think I even deserve that chance?” Harry asked.

No one answered straight away. The question lingered, unresolved, heavy in the space between them.

Eventually, Josh spoke. “Not automatically. But maybe. If you mean it.”

The conversation eased after that, drifting towards safer ground. JJ complained loudly. Arguments sparked over nothing of consequence. Laughter returned, filling the booth again.

But Harry stayed quieter than usual. He smiled when expected, nodded along, but his mind was elsewhere — still with her, still circling what-ifs. What if someone else had been there during those years of silence? What if she’d found someone steady, someone who didn’t run? What if she was happy?

Would he still try? Could he be selfish enough to hope she wasn’t?

And more than anything — what would he do if it really was too late?

Because now they all knew.

Alina wasn’t just a girl from his past. She wasn’t a college sweetheart or a summer fling. She was the cornerstone of a life he almost had — the version of himself that existed before the noise, before the chaos, before the world knew his name. She was the ghost he’d carried quietly all this time, and in hiding her, he’d made her invisible — not just to his friends, but to himself.

And maybe — just maybe — he hadn’t missed every train.

Maybe one still waited.

And if it didn’t?

He would still be there.

Because this time, he wouldn’t disappear.

Later that night, when Harry finally made it home and climbed into bed, the unease followed him there, settling in alongside him as naturally as the dark. The flat was quiet in the way it always was when he returned alone — not peaceful, just empty — and he moved through it on autopilot, switching off lights, setting his phone face-down on the bedside table, pulling the duvet up around himself with the same habitual motions he’d repeated a hundred times before. When he lay back, the mattress dipped beneath his weight, familiar and unremarkable, offering no comfort and no resistance either. Sleep, predictably, did not come.

He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing the slow movement of shadows cast by passing headlights outside, the room breathing softly around him as the night stretched on. Time passed, though his thoughts did not move with it. They circled instead, drifting inevitably back to Alina, to the way she had looked earlier that day — beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with effort, strong in a way that came from having endured and survived. There had been something guarded about her, a carefulness he hadn’t remembered but now recognised, visible in the way her arms had folded loosely across her chest, not defensive exactly, but protective, as if she had learned somewhere along the way that some things were better kept close.

He thought about her smile — how sparingly she’d offered it, how it appeared and disappeared again like something tested rather than given freely — and about the way she chose her words with intention, measuring them before letting them land, never saying more than she meant. There was a discipline to her now, an economy of expression that spoke of years spent holding herself together, and it struck him that he’d noticed all of this without ever really asking her about it.

Slowly, uncomfortably, another thought surfaced.

He had barely asked her anything.

The realisation settled in his chest with a dull, unyielding weight as he replayed the conversation piece by piece, seeing it clearly now — how much space he had taken up, how focused he’d been on explaining himself, on justifying the silence, on laying his guilt bare as if that alone might somehow balance the years he’d been absent. He hadn’t asked about her friends. He hadn’t asked about her work beyond the surface. He hadn’t asked about the life she’d built in the decade he hadn’t been part of. He hadn’t asked if there was someone else. He hadn’t asked if she was happy.

The truth of it was hard to swallow precisely because it was familiar. He had been selfish before — not deliberately cruel, not malicious — but centred, consumed by his own fear and confusion, convinced that his inner chaos excused the silence he left behind. And maybe, lying there in the dark, he had to admit that part of him was still like that, still instinctively focused inward when things grew difficult.

But another part of him — quieter, steadier — was learning.

He rolled onto his side, the sheets rustling softly, eyes finally closing though sleep still refused him, and in the absence of distraction something solid began to form beneath the regret. Not dramatic. Not grand. Just real. If she gave him another chance — any kind of chance — he wouldn’t waste it talking about himself. He would listen. He would ask about her days, her work, the things that mattered to her now. He would learn who she had become without trying to map her back onto the girl he remembered, without pretending she had been waiting where he’d left her.

He would accept that she was not frozen in the past, not preserved in memory, and he would not expect her to fit neatly into the version of her he still carried. He would not ask for the past back, either — that version of them was gone, and pretending otherwise would only fracture something else that might still be salvageable. Instead, he would try to build something new, something fragile perhaps, but honest, starting from where they were now rather than where they had once been when everything felt simpler and the world hadn’t yet intervened.

Maybe it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe it wouldn’t unfold the way he hoped. Maybe she would decide that one day at a time ended somewhere he wasn’t meant to follow.

But for the first time in a long while, Harry realised he was willing to try anyway — not to erase what he’d done, not to reclaim something he hadn’t protected, but to become someone who would not disappear again. And maybe — just maybe — she would let him.

And if she didn’t?

·:*¨༺ Alina Taylor ༻¨*:·

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