THE MAN WHO RAN AWAY
They called me the man who ran away.
Every article. Every fan thread. Every industry whisper.
"Nate Rae Villanueva—the golden boy who vanished."
I used to scroll through them at night in the early days. Out of guilt. Out of longing.
But eventually, I stopped. Because none of it mattered here.
Not in this quiet pocket of Paris, where the morning rush meant early sunlight pouring through the bakery windows and the smell of cinnamon-buttered croissants pulling sleepy locals through the door.
Five years.
It's been five years since I walked away from everything—spotlights, scripts, scandals…
From him.
Matt.
I don't even know what version of him exists now. International popstar? Married? Moved on?
Probably. That's the thing with people like him. They were always meant for the stars.
And me?
I find peace in baking bread.
I dust flour from my hands and glance at the clock. It's 7:48 a.m. The front doorbell jingles.
"Your delivery of chocolate powder, mon ami," Gabriel calls as he steps in, arms full of supplies.
Gabriel.
The last remnant of my past that made it into my present.
He came to Paris a year after I did. Said Thailand wasn't the same without chaos.
Now he runs the flower shop two blocks down and drinks way too much espresso for a man who hates caffeine.
He places the box on the counter and gives me a once-over. "You look like you didn't sleep again."
"I was testing the new recipe," I reply, nodding at the tray of pain au chocolat cooling on the side. "Think I finally nailed the layers."
Gab peers at the pastry. "You also haven't smiled like that in a while."
I shrug.
We don't talk about the past much. But he knows—better than anyone—that even in a city as beautiful as Paris, ghosts find ways to visit.
Later That Day
The bakery stays warm, busy, and calm. It's not glamorous. But it's safe.
Locals know me as Rae, the soft-spoken guy who makes their favorite tart.
Not the Nate with headlines, fan accounts, and a love story that the world dissected like fiction.
Sometimes I wonder…
If Matt ever looked for me.
If Brice, Zeke, Luther… ever hated me for disappearing.
If I owed them more than silence.
But the thing about heartbreak is—
it doesn't always roar. Sometimes, it just lingers quietly until you choose to no longer let it in.
Still… when the rain taps against the window and the music playing from the kitchen hits just the right chord, I feel it again.
That ache.
That if only.
__________
The sunlight filtered gently through the leaves above, casting shifting shadows across the picnic blanket Gabriel laid out. We had a spread of fresh baguette, creamy brie, strawberries, and sparkling lemonade. Around us, Paris moved in the way only Paris does—casually poetic, softly buzzing, alive in a different rhythm.
"Try this," Gab said, offering me a spoonful of homemade fig jam.
I leaned forward and took it, nodding. "Perfect."
"Of course it is," he grinned, plucking a strawberry and popping it into his mouth. "You're sitting with the two greatest culinary minds on this side of the Seine."
I chuckled, wiping a bit of jam from my lip. "We should open a café."
"We already did. Yours just smells better."
The Eiffel Tower towered ahead of us, majestic and unbothered by our small lives unfolding beneath it. I leaned back on my elbows, face tilted toward the sky, letting the sun kiss my skin.
Then I closed my eyes.
And it all came back.
A different picnic. A different sky.
Matt was laughing too loudly because Brice had dropped watermelon all over his pants. Zeke and Luther were mock-arguing over which grilled meat was better. Jake was playing with a frisbee he didn't know how to throw, and I... I was in the center of it all.
Surrounded by chaos.
Surrounded by them.
By him.
Matt had leaned over then, placing a small pastry on my plate with a dumb proud grin.
"You like it?" he asked.
"I love it," I had whispered.
Back in the present, I opened my eyes again. The wind was calm. The Eiffel stood still.
Gabriel looked at me and tilted his head. "You okay?"
I nodded, quietly.
Gab didn't press further. He just leaned back beside me, our shoulders lightly touching.
And for a moment, the memory faded gently—like a song that still lingered in the air but didn't sting anymore.
_______
It was mid-morning when the bell above the door chimed, the kind of delicate sound I'd grown to love—the sound of comfort, routine, peace. My apron was dusted in flour and cinnamon, and I had a tray of warm pain au chocolat cooling on the counter when I looked up.
The man who entered made my heart stop.
Dark hair, slightly tousled. Sunglasses perched lazily on his nose. Tall frame. A posture too familiar to forget.
For a second, just a blink, I swore it was Matt.
But it wasn't.
The man removed his glasses and smiled politely in French, asking for a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant. His voice was deeper, his French smoother than Matt's ever was. Still, it took me a few seconds too long to respond.
"Oui, tout de suite," I finally said, my voice catching slightly.
Gabriel, who was arranging flowers by the window, glanced over at me, concerned.
"You okay?" he mouthed silently.
I nodded once.
Just a ghost, I wanted to tell him. He's not here. He's not here. He hasn't been here in five years.
As I poured the cappuccino, foam spiraling under the steam wand, something else reached me—music. From outside.
A street performer was setting up across the narrow cobbled street. It wasn't unusual. Every weekend, a new voice would try their luck near the bakery, hoping that the morning crowd and the scent of pastries would sweeten their tips.
But the first chords he strummed on his guitar pierced through me.
I knew the song before the first word came out.
"People say we shouldn't be together…"
I froze.
The milk overflowed slightly. Gabriel rushed to take it from me.
"Nate—" he started.
I turned away from the counter.
"We're too young to know about forever…"
No. No, not now.
The customer was still waiting. I wiped my hands and forced a smile as I handed over his order. He thanked me and left with a kind nod, not knowing that the sound of his shoes walking out the door was the only thing holding me together.
I could still hear the song—They don't know about the things we do… they don't know about the "I love you's"—as I retreated to the back kitchen, yanked off my apron, and leaned heavily against the wall.
I wanted to forget.
But I had once stood on a rooftop under fireworks while that song played and Matt had looked at me like I was the only person in the universe.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Just a street singer. Just a song.
Nothing more.
___________
It was a slow Tuesday. The sky was gray, typical of Paris in spring—moody clouds hanging above like thoughts I didn't want to think. I had just closed the bakery for the midday break, tying up a paper bag of leftover croissants to bring home. Gabriel was at the market, and I thought I had a quiet hour to myself.
I turned the corner toward Rue des Martyrs—and that's when I felt it.
A body collided into mine, knocking the bag out of my hand. The croissants scattered.
"Mer—! Sorry, I wasn't looking—" a voice said, familiar and sharp like a chord out of tune.
I froze.
Zeke.
He froze too. His sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose as he stared at me.
"Nate?"
No. This couldn't be happening.
He looked older—taller maybe—but the same Zeke: denim jacket, bright expression, louder than the streets of Bangkok even when he wasn't speaking.
My legs twitched to move, to bolt back into the bakery. But before I could turn, Zeke said, "Don't you dare."
I paused.
"Don't you dare walk away."
I stepped back anyway.
And he followed.
"Nate!" His voice cracked. "Seriously?! After five years, that's how you want this to go?"
"Zeke, I—" My throat tightened. "I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to what? Bump into me? Or vanish into the damn wind like we all didn't love you?"
I looked down at the scattered croissants.
"Let me explain."
"No. Not yet," he snapped. "Because for five years we waited. We didn't know if you were dead, sick, heartbroken—or just done with us. You could've messaged me. One line, one emoji, one flipping meme, Nate."
His voice trembled. My chest cracked a little more.
"I didn't know how to face you," I said quietly.
Brice stepped back, hands trembling. "Face me? I'm not Matt, Nate. I'm your best friend. I never stopped being that."
I swallowed hard. "I thought you'd be mad. I ran. I ran from everything."
"I was mad!" he shouted, eyes burning. "I was furious! I cried into a tub of overpriced imported ice cream, okay? I cursed your name in three languages. But I also kept your secrets. I defended your silence. Because I knew—deep down—I knew something must've hurt you so bad, you thought disappearing was the only way."
Silence.
The wind rustled my jacket. I crouched to pick up the crushed croissants, blinking back the sting behind my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I wasn't trying to hurt you."
Brice knelt next to me and helped gather the rest of the pastries. "I know. But damn, Nate... you did."
"I missed you," I added, voice breaking.
He finally looked at me fully, and this time, it wasn't anger on his face—it was something gentler. "I missed you too, idiot."
We stood there on the cobblestone sidewalk, surrounded by flaky croissant crumbs and a million unsaid things. Zeke reached out and gave me a long, tight hug—one I didn't know I'd been needing.
And not once, not even in passing, did he mention Matt.
________
I made tea.
Not the fancy kind Parisians serve with a lecture on temperature and steeping time—just the kind you make when your hands won't stop shaking because someone from your old life suddenly showed up outside your bakery, and for a second, you thought it was a dream.
Zeke stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes scanning my tiny flat like he didn't believe it was real.
"So this is where you've been hiding," he finally said. "France. A bakery. You."
I set down his cup on the table. "Not exactly how I imagined our reunion either."
Zeke sat. No smile, just that familiar resting sarcasm he always wore like armor. He took a sip of tea and stared through the open window, where soft wind played with the curtains.
"How's... everyone?" I asked. The question felt so fragile in my throat. "Brice? Luther?"
He looked down at his cup.
"Luther's fine," Zeke said. "Still loud. Still hopelessly addicted to oat milk. Still rocking a different hair color every other week."
That made me smile. Only for a second.
"And Brice?" I asked carefully. "Is he... mad at me?"
Zeke didn't say anything.
He didn't have to.
I nodded slowly. "He probably is."
Zeke leaned back in his chair and said, "He's not mad. Not exactly. He's hurt, Nate. And you know him—when he's hurt, he bites."
I looked down at my hands.
"I should've stayed," I murmured.
Zeke exhaled slowly. Then, after a long pause, he added, "Jake's gone."
My head snapped up. "What?"
"Jake," he repeated, softer now. "He passed away. Two years ago."
My lungs forgot how to breathe.
"No. No—how? What happened?"
Zeke's face tensed. "Car accident. It was quick. We were all together the day before... and then he was just... not."
The silence afterward was suffocating. It clawed at my ribs, heavy and sharp.
I stood, paced the small space of the flat, then stopped and turned to him.
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
Zeke stared at me. "You disappeared, Nate. You blocked everyone. You changed your number. No one even knew if you were alive."
"I didn't mean to vanish forever," I said, my voice cracking. "I just... I couldn't take everything back then. I was drowning."
Zeke nodded. "I get it. But while you were drowning, Brice was trying to breathe with half his heart missing."
That broke something in me.
I dropped into the chair across from him, eyes stinging. "Jake was... he was everything to Brice."
"He still is," Zeke whispered. "There's not a day he doesn't talk to him. Or pretend he can."
The tears slipped past before I could stop them. They rolled down my cheeks, hot and guilty.
"I should've been there," I said. "For the funeral. For Brice. For Jake."
Zeke's expression softened. He reached across the table and gently squeezed my wrist.
"You weren't," he said, "but you're here now."
"And Brice?" I asked again, quieter this time. "Will he even want to see me?"
Zeke hesitated.
And that silence said more than any sentence ever could.
I bit my lower lip, nodding again, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat.
The wind picked up outside. The tea grew cold.
And I sat there, grieving everything I didn't know I'd lost—Jake, my place in our friend group, and the time I could never get back.
But Zeke stayed.
And for the first time in five years, I didn't cry alone.
________
"You really won't come back?" Zeke asked, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag as we stood just outside my bakery, under the mellow Paris sky.
I watched as morning light filtered through the lace awning, casting soft patterns on the cobbled street. Gabriel was inside cleaning up the counter, pretending not to listen—but I knew he could hear every word.
"I'm not ready yet," I murmured, eyes on the steam rising from the coffee cup in my hands. "Thailand feels like... a different lifetime."
Zeke gave a short, knowing sigh. "It's still your home."
"Maybe," I said, after a pause. "But right now, this is the only place I can breathe."
Zeke didn't argue. He just gave a small nod, lips pressed together like he was holding back more than one response. Then, after a beat, he leaned against the bakery's doorframe and said, "You know, Brice will kill me if he finds out I saw you and didn't tell him."
I cracked the tiniest smile. "You won't tell him."
Zeke smirked, then pointed a finger at me. "You're lucky I love you, or I'd rat you out with your French pastries and your reclusive poet era."
"Promise me," I said, this time serious. "Don't tell anyone. Not until I'm ready. Not even Brice."
Zeke looked at me, really looked. His gaze softened, then he gave me a slow nod.
"I promise," he said. "But don't make it five more years, okay? Some ghosts don't wait that long."
I lowered my head, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the emotions from rising.
Just then, the door creaked open behind me and Gabriel stepped out, a basket of warm croissants in his hand. "Zeke," he greeted kindly. "For your trip. You'll need something soft to balance out your stubbornness."
Zeke barked a laugh, accepting the basket. "Still charming, huh, Gab?"
Gabriel just smiled and stood beside me, the sun touching his golden-brown curls like a quiet halo.
Zeke looked between the two of us. "Thanks," he said. "For taking care of him."
Gabriel nodded once, sincerely. "He needed peace. We're just trying to keep it that way."
Zeke gave me a one-armed hug—tight, grounding—and then stepped back. "Whenever you're ready, Nate... we'll be there. Not just Brice. Everyone."
I watched him walk down the quiet street toward the cab waiting near the corner. Just before getting in, he turned back once, raised his hand in goodbye, and I lifted mine too, slow and small.
The moment he was gone, Gabriel stood quietly beside me.
"You okay?" he asked.
I didn't answer right away.
I watched the space where Zeke had just stood and said, "He saw every piece of the old me. It's weird having that show up after pretending it didn't exist."
Gabriel reached for my hand. "You don't have to pretend here. But when you're ready to stop running... I'll be here too."
I nodded, heart heavy but just a little less lost.
One day, maybe.
But not yet.
//