#touwrites

🎶“I understand if you changed your mind about me... but all you had to do was say."🎶 loud - Olivia Dean

That line from Olivia Dean’s song had been playing on a loop in your head forever. You cant lie, you were bitter.

Two entire years since he packed up his life, left South London, and moved to Germany. Two years of watching him build a grand, glittering life in Munich while you were left picking up the pieces of whatever the hell 2022 had been.

Back then, you thought what you two had was deep. It felt like everything. He had you in his bed, taking up every second of your free time, holding you like you were the only thing anchored to the earth. But apparently, it wasn't that serious to him. Apparently, you were just in the right place at the right time—his little sanctuary before he leveled up and moved on to “bigger, better things”.

At least, that’s how it felt. Because a real man would have at least said goodbye. He would’ve looked you in the eye and said, ‘I don’t want this anymore.’ Instead, he chose nothing.

And now, his face was everywhere. Literally everywhere

You couldn't escape Michael if you tried. His name was plastered across sports outlets, his highlights were all over TikTok, and every other week, no fail, fan pages were posting photos of him on yachts, outside clubs, or hanging around different women. Recently, there had even been a rumor about an alleged baby mother. Ouf. Every single notification felt like a fresh slap to the face. It stung bad. It made you feel sick to your stomach, knowing how easily you’d been replaced while you were still stuck analyzing every text you ever sent him.

So, you tried to move on. You really did. You threw yourself into university, secured the degree, and dated around. There were casual flings, annoying "talking stages," and even a full-blown relationship that lasted six months. But none of it worked. No one touched you the same. No one knew the flow of your voice or the way you liked your coffee the way Michael did.

Last week, you finally called it off with your boyfriend. You lied and told him everything was "too much" and that you "weren't ready for a relationship." The truth was, you were just a mess. You were still hopelessly hung up on a ghost.

Unlike Michael, who was clearly thriving. Or so you thought.

Nothing prepared you for running into him on a random Tuesday afternoon in Central London. Nothing.

You were coming out of a coffee shop, minding your own business, when you almost walked straight into a broad chest. You muttered an apology, looked up—and the world completely froze in place.

Michael looked back at you, frozen. He was taller, broader, his style sleeker…kinda, but those were the exact same eyes that used to watch you sleep. He was completely stunned to speak.

Truthfully, Michael felt like the air had been knocked straight out of his lungs. You looked gorgeous. Better than he remembered. Adulting looked incredible on you, and in a split second, two years of buried longing hit him like a train. He hadn’t forgotten you. Not for a single day. No amount of women throwing themselves at him, no amount of fame or distraction had ever wiped the memory of you from his brain.

But the last time he’d checked your socials a year ago, he saw a picture of you with another guy. He assumed you had moved on, built a life without him, and hated his guts. So, he took his loss and stayed away. He figured he deserved it for being a coward back then anyways.

The conversation that followed was... awkward as hell.

"Oh. Hey," he had muttered, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Hey. Michael. Wow. Long time," you said, your voice tight.

It was painful. This was the man you used to spend every breathing second with. The man who knew every curve of your body, every secret you’d ever whispered. And now? He didn't even know what to say to you. You exchanged stiff, polite pleasantries.

"How's Germany?"

"Good, good. Cold. How's uni?"

"Finished. Working now."

"Ah. That's..great."

You parted ways after barely touching the surface level. It was cold. It was unnatural.

Just when you thought you were finally getting over him, he was right back at the tip of your mind, wrecking your peace all over again.

Unbeknownst to you, Michael was staying in a luxury hotel in London for a few days before Bundesliga pre-season training kicked off.

Right now, he was pacing the hardwood floor of his suite, pulling at his locs, completely spiraling. That encounter had ruined him. The stiff, polite girl on the street wasn't you. He couldn't stand the thought that the last interaction you two might ever have in this lifetime was whatever miserable, awkward “conversation” that just happened.

He opened his phone. He typed out a text. Deleted it. Typed it again. Hands sweating.

:Hey, I know this is random. But can I buy you dinner this week? Just to catch up. properly.

It took him thirty minutes of staring at his screen, pacing back and forth, before he finally hit send.

When your phone buzzed on your coffee table and his name popped up, you stared at it for a solid two minutes. WTF. What is he doing?

Your pride told you to ignore it. Your brain told you to delete his number. Never look back.

But your heart... made you dress up in a sleek black dress and meet him at a fancy restaurant in Mayfair on a Friday evening.

The first twenty minutes at the restaurant were physically painful. The silence hung heavy, choked by two years of unspoken resentment and pride.

"So... Germany's good?" you asked, taking a quick sip of your wine.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's alright. Fast football. Different culture." Michael picked at his glass. "How's... school? Life?"

"I graduated. Got the job I wanted."

"That's good. Happy for you."

Rinse. Repeat. Recycle. It was exhausting. You were about ready to ask for the bill and cut your losses when Michael accidentally knocked his fork off the table, caught it with a ridiculous, uncoordinated reflex, and almost spilled his drink in the process.

You burst out laughing—a real, loud laugh that you genuinely couldn’t hold back.

Michael looked up, a sheepish smile cracking through his serious expression. "Shut up, man. My hands are cold."

"You're a top athlete and your reflexes almost failed you over a fork," you teased, shaking your head.

"Pfft, failed?," he grinned, those dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

Just like that, the ice broke. A memory surfaced, an old joke from his Palace days about his terrible cooking, and suddenly, the real Michael was back. The conversation started to flow effortlessly and warm. The anger in your chest slowly melted into a soft, aching nostalgia.

By the time the restaurant was closing down, neither of you wanted the night to end. The two years of missing each other was a physical weight in the air.

"Come back to the hotel," Michael said softly as you stood outside waiting for an Uber. He looked down at you, his gaze intense, completely dropping the nonchalant act. "Just to talk. Please?"

You knew you shouldn't. You knew it was a terrible, stupid, dangerous idea.

"..Okay," you whispered. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

His hotel suite was quiet, lit only by the low ambient lamps and the distant glow of the London skyline through the floor to ceiling windows.

You sat on the edge of the plush sofa, holding a glass of water, while Michael sat on the other side.

"so..why didn't you say anything after you left?" The question spilled out of you before you could even stop yourself. It was the question that had kept you up at night for two years. "You just... went to Germany. You didn't call. You didn't say goodbye. You just let it die."

Michael stared down at his hands, exhaling a long, shaky breath. "I was terrified, man."

"Terrified of what, Michael? Me?"

"Of everything," he admitted softly, turning to face you properly. "I was twenty-two. Moving to a new country, huge pressure, big money, everyone watching. I didn't know what we were. We never put a label on it, and I was too much of a coward to ask you if you'd wait for me. I thought... I thought if I didn't say anything, it wouldn't feel like it was actually over. But then months passed, and I felt like an actual idiot. I thought you hated me."

"I do hate you," you admitted, your voice cracking a bit. "I felt like I was just a temporary thing for you."

"You were never that," Michael said genuinely, reaching across the couch to lay his hand over yours. His skin was warm, familiar, and the sensation shot straight to your chest. "Never. You were the only real thing I had in London."

You looked up at him, tears stinging the backs of your eyes. He moved closer, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand.

"I missed you," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips. "Every single day."

"Michael..."

Then, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn't fast or aggressive; it was desperate, soft, and full with two years of pent-up longing. You gasped against his mouth, pulling him closer by the neck of his top, throwing all your walls and rules right out the window.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

 You had told yourself you were over this. You had sworn to your friends you didn't care about him anymore.

His hands found your waist, lifting you effortlessly until you were in his lap. His touch was warm and reverent, retracing every curve he used to still knows by heart. The quiet intimacy of the room swallowed you completely. The slight rustle of clothes, the sound of heavy breathing, the familiar, intoxicating scent of his cologne. Every touch felt like coming home, even though you knew the facade was built on borrowed time.

...

The next morning, soft sunlight peaked through the curtains of his hotel bedroom.

You woke up entangled in his sheets, Michael’s heavy arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you against his chest even in his sleep. For a split second, it felt like you traveled back in time.

Then reality hit. ugh.

You quietly untangled yourself, grabbed his hoodie, and walked into the living space. A few minutes later, Michael emerged, rubbing his eyes, looking softly disheveled and human in a way the media never saw.

He ordered room service, and you sat together at the small dining table, eating breakfast in a comfortable, quiet haze.

"So," you said gently, pushing a piece of toast around your plate. "What now?"

Michael looked up at you, his eyes serious. "I don't want to lose you again."

You looked at him warmly, but you shook your head softly. "Michael... lets be real"

He went silent.

"You're flying back to Munich in two days," you said, your voice steady, but your chest felt tight. "Your pre-season starts. Your life is over there now. And my life is here. I just started at the dream job I worked my ass off to get. I'm not dropping my career for a man. Even if it's you."

Michael leaned back, running a hand over his face frustrated. He knew you were being logical. Moving to Bayern Munich was his big career breakthrough; he had to be 100% locked in from now on. Asking you to abandon your dreams in London to chase him around Germany would be selfish, and pretty cocky—and starting a complex long distance relationship after two years of miscommunication and trauma was a recipe built to spoil.

"It's bad timing," Michael murmured, looking at you biting his lip trying to think of some solution. "Isn't it?"

"It's terrible timing," you agreed softly.

There was no big argument. No screaming match. Just a mature, quiet understanding between two people who loved each other, but realized their lives were moving in two completely opposite directions. The love you had before was never wasted—it was real, it was beautiful, it just belonged to a different chapter.

It was time to let go. For real.

This wasn't a bitter, resentful ghosting anymore. It was a proper, conscious decision.

As you gathered your stuff and put your shoes on by the front door, Michael walked over, pulling you into one last, deep kiss. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in.

"Thank you for coming last night," he whispered into your skin.

You pulled back, looking up at his handsome face, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. "Cherish the couple of minutes we had"

He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, nodding. "Always."

You turned the handle, stepped out into the hallway, and walked out into the oddly crisp London morning. He was heading back to Germany in less than 48 hours, and you had a life to lock back into stat.

It was time to go back to real life. But for the first time in two years, your chest didn't feel heavy anymore.

the end

okay guys, I actually really liked writing this, it itched some part of my brain idk, but lmk what you guys think, and like comment and repost if you want 😋 - tou