My fingertip traces the line of his face in the photograph. His strong jaw. The slight crook in his nose from that fight when he was sixteen. Details I should have forgotten by now, features that shouldn’t still be burned into my memory.
Something cinches tight around my ribcage. It hurts. Not crying yet, but that dangerous moment right before the tearscome when everything feels too big to contain. I swallow hard against it.
“Don’t,” I whisper to myself, to the empty room, to the girl in the photograph who had no idea what was coming. “Don’t you dare.”
In my romance novels, this is the scene where the heroine completely falls apart over her ex. She’d blast heartbreak playlists, polish off a bottle of wine, ask her friends for an emergency intervention involving ice cream and terrible movies.
But that’s not who I am. I don’t shatter into a million pieces. I might bend or crack, but I hold myself together through sheer force of will.
“He means nothing to you now,” I tell myself, my voice barely audible over Harper’s bass line bleeding through the walls. “He left. He chose his fancy job and his big city future over you. His ‘always’ came with fine print and an expiration date.”
My body knows I’m lying. My pulse hammers in my throat, my face burns hot, my breathing comes shallow and quick. Five years of pretending not to care—gone because of one old photo.
Because the truth is, I’ve spent half a decade building my entire life to avoid feeling exactly this way ever again. I go on dates with nice men who could never break my heart because I never let myself care enough to fall. I follow the same routine day after day. I built walls so high and thick that no one gets close enough to hurt me. I devour romance novels because it’s infinitely safer to experience love through fictional characters than to risk my own heart in the real world.
A cold, wet nose nudges insistently at my hand. Mia shifts closer, her brown eyes locked on my face with that intensity only dogs possess. She whines low in her throat, concerned. When I don’t immediately respond, she shoves her head under my palm, demanding attention.
“Hey, girl,” I whisper, my fingers scratching the soft spot behind her ears. Her fur is warm and silky as she leans her full weight against my side. “I’m okay. Promise.”
She knows I’m full of lies. She places one heavy paw on my leg and presses harder against me, like she’s physically trying to hold me together, to keep all my broken pieces from scattering.
I force myself to look at the photo one more time. At Zayn’s face. At the way he used to look at me like I was his entire world, like nothing else could ever matter more. Until I didn’t matter at all anymore.
My fingers won’t steady as I shove the photo back into the box, burying it under the brittle rose and ticket stubs and worthless lucky stone. I slam the lid shut—the sound too loud in the quiet room. I freeze, listening hard. The shower is still running. Harper’s music pounds on.
I return the box to its hiding place and press the loose floorboard back down until it sits flush. Out of sight, out of mind. Just like he should be. Just like he was supposed to stay.
“I won’t let him hurt me again,” I tell Mia, who tilts her head like she understands every word. “I’m not that naive eighteen-year-old anymore. I’m stronger now. Smarter. I know better.”
But my body knows what my brain keeps denying.
Zayn is back, and no matter how many times I’ve convinced myself I’m over him, that I’ve moved on, that five years is more than enough time to heal—my body disagrees. It remembers everything. How his hands felt on my skin. The sound of his laugh. The safety of his arms around me. The way he whispered “always” against my lips like it was a vow he actually intended to keep.
I take a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart. Five years of protecting myself, of moving forward, of becoming someone who doesn’t need anyone. I can’t let him knock everything down in one day.
But later, when I’m brushing my teeth and washing my face, going through my nightly routine on autopilot, I can’t stop seeing that photograph behind my closed eyelids. I tell myself it was a lifetime ago, that we’re completely different people now, that the past should stay buried—but I know with sinking certainty that this isn’t going to be easy.
Nothing with Zayn ever was.
CHAPTER 3
When Eyes Collide
I’m late. Me—Sophie “If You’re On Time, You’re Late” Whitmore—actually running late for work. I couldn’t sleep last night, Zayn’s face kept popping every time I closed my eyes. I gave up around 4 a.m., skipped Mia’s morning walk entirely, and still somehow wasted twenty minutes staring into my closet like my scrubs might have magically transformed into something that didn’t scream “I gave up on life.” Now I’m speed-walking through the morning fog toward The Daily Grind, checking my watch over and over like that might somehow bend time in my favor.
The fog dampens everything, making my hair curl into frizzy tendrils at my temples. My blue scrubs are wrinkled because I shoved them in my bag last night instead of hanging them properly. Dr. Martinez will notice. She notices everything.
Perfect.
I yank open the door to The Daily Grind and the bell chimes overhead. Warm air envelops me—a contrast to the damp chill outside that I almost sigh with relief. The smell hits immediately: fresh-brewed coffee, cinnamon rolls baking, that buttery sweetness of pastries in the oven. The espresso machine hisses, steam rising as someone froths milk. Soft indie musicplays from speakers I can’t see, barely audible over the morning crowd.
The line stretches halfway to the door. Of course it does. Because I’m late and the universe is apparently conspiring against me today.
I glance at my watch again. 7:08. I need to be at the clinic by 7:30. It’s a five-minute walk if I hustle. I can make it if the line moves fast. I shift my weight from foot to foot on the scuffed hardwood floor, mentally counting the people ahead of me. One, two, three, four… five customers. Five people standing between me and the caffeine I desperately need to survive this day.
“Morning rush,” the woman ahead of me says brightly, turning to flash me a friendly smile. “Always packed this time of day.”
I nod and offer my polite smile—the one that looks pleasant enough but doesn’t actually reach my eyes or invite further conversation. I don’t have the bandwidth for small talk today. Not when I spent half the night wide awake, my brain playing a greatest hits compilation of Zayn memories I’ve spent five years trying to forget.
