OLD LOVE SONG
The soft chime above the door sang its familiar welcome as another customer stepped into the shop. I didn't look up at first—I was too focused on arranging the new batch of matcha croissants, pretending my hands weren't already covered in flour and memories.
"Bonjour," I greeted absently, brushing a smudge of green off my cheek.
"Bonjour," a soft voice replied. Feminine, polite. Hesitant.
I glanced up briefly. She was young, maybe in her twenties, wearing a beige coat and holding a camera that hung from her neck like a necklace. A tourist, probably. Nothing unusual.
She smiled kindly. "One butter croissant, s'il vous plaît."
I nodded, boxed it with practiced ease, and handed it over. "Here you go."
She handed me cash, then lingered a little—not uncomfortably, but long enough for me to notice.
Her eyes studied my face like she was trying to solve a puzzle she already knew the answer to.
"Merci," she said finally, but just before turning to leave, she added in a quieter tone, "You're really him, aren't you?"
I stiffened, hand halfway through wiping the counter.
"I'm sorry?" I replied, cautious.
She smiled gently, as if she'd just uncovered a secret but didn't want to break it open.
"It's okay. I won't say anything. I just wanted to say... I'm glad you're safe."
Then she left.
Just like that.
No selfie. No shouting. No confrontation.
Only the quiet chime of the door as it closed behind her.
I stood still, disoriented.
Ten minutes later, as I swept under the front counter, I saw it—folded neatly, hidden like a whisper beneath the napkin tray.
A note. Cream paper. Clean ink.
My name wasn't written anywhere on it, but somehow I knew it was for me.
I opened it slowly, almost scared of the words.
He still sings your name.
Even when no one else is listening.
I stared at it for so long, the letters began to blur. I didn't move. Didn't blink. The weight of it sat in my chest like a stone dropped in a still lake.
My hands trembled slightly as I folded the note back up and slipped it into the drawer beneath the register.
But the silence of the shop had changed.
Matt's voice echoed in my mind—low, cracked, hopeful.
All the times he sang to me, for me.
The night before the kiss.
The village concert.
The song in Manila.
He still sings your name.
I burned a tray of scones that morning.
Over-brewed the tea.
Cut the bread unevenly.
Gabriel noticed. He asked if I was tired.
I told him no.
But the truth was:
I didn't feel tired.
I felt haunted.
And somehow, a little less hidden.
"Pack up early today, baker boy. I'm kidnapping you."
Nate raised an eyebrow. "That sounds mildly illegal."
Gab chuckled. "It's a friendly abduction. No dark intentions. Just crepes, jazz, and possibly a boat ride."
"You're kidding."
"I'm absolutely not," Gabriel said, already grabbing Nate's apron and tossing it onto a hook. "You've been wallowing in flour and ghosts for weeks. It's time to remind you that Paris exists outside these four walls."
Nate rolled his eyes, but part of him—maybe the part that had been quietly aching since Zeke left—wanted to say yes.
And so he did.
They started at a street crepe stall near Rue Cler. Gabriel ordered banana-choco with extra whipped cream, while Nate picked a simple lemon-sugar. They strolled alongside the Seine, eating, laughing, occasionally getting powdered sugar on their noses.
At one point, a street musician played a soft rendition of "Fly Me to the Moon" and Gabriel offered his hand with a mock bow.
"Dance with me, monsieur."
Nate laughed, shoving him. "Absolutely not."
Gab twirled himself instead, drawing a few amused glances. "Your loss."
That evening, they stumbled into a dimly lit jazz bar tucked behind an alley. The pianist was wearing suspenders, the wine was cheap but honest, and the music made everything feel sepia-toned.
They barely spoke—just shared a table, the kind of quiet that didn't need filling.
Nate swirled the wine in his glass and smiled without meaning to.
"Thanks," he murmured. "For today."
Gab didn't look at him when he answered, just sipped his drink.
"I'd do it every day, if it helps you remember how to smile."
Two days later, they met up again, unintentionally—but it turned into a proper outing.
Nate had taken a walk to his favorite secondhand bookstore. Gabriel showed up with two croissants and no explanation. They browsed the shelves in companionable silence.
On the way out, the rain came down suddenly—light at first, then a rush. They huddled under an awning, clutching paper bags full of poetry and recipes.
Gabriel glanced at him. "Is it weird that this is my favorite version of you?"
Nate raised a brow.
"The version who's quiet but here. Not somewhere else."
Nate didn't answer, but he didn't look away either.
Back at the bakery, Nate stood outside the door, keys in his hand, while Gabriel gave him a lopsided smile.
"See? I didn't even flirt. Just friendly dates. Like I promised."
"You were this close to dancing with me in the rain," Nate deadpanned.
Gab laughed, stepping back onto the cobbled street.
"But you smiled again. That's all I wanted."
Nate stood at the door long after Gabriel had disappeared down the lane.
And for the first time in a long while…
he wasn't thinking of running.
He was just thinking of how present the moment felt.
_________
It's past midnight.
The streetlights outside my apartment flicker like they're keeping secrets. I can hear the soft clatter of the bakery's wind chime from down below, stirred by the Paris breeze. My hands are still dusted with flour—somehow it clings even after I've washed up.
I don't know why I bought this journal.
Gabriel said it might help. "You're always thinking too much. Maybe put it somewhere."
So here I am. Sitting by the window, with a pen and a page that looks braver than I feel.
Journal – Entry One
Rue du Montparnasse, Paris
[No Date]
I thought Paris would fix me.
Maybe it has, a little. I sleep longer. I breathe deeper. I laugh when Gabriel burns the baguettes or does bad impressions of French tourists. I even smile when little kids press their noses to the glass of my bakery, staring at my croissants like they're treasure.
But some mornings—I still wake up reaching for a name I told myself I let go of.
Matt.
It's always Matt.
I'll dream of him—singing, cooking, laughing—and then wake up with the kind of silence that hurts.
It's wild how someone's absence can still feel like a presence.
Gabriel… he's been good to me. He gives me space, doesn't press when my smile falters. We go on walks. Sometimes he invites me to paint with him. We went on a picnic last week near the Eiffel Tower—he brought my favorite cherry tart without even asking.
He tries. And I'm thankful.
But today, I heard a street performer outside the bakery.
He was singing They Don't Know About Us.
And I swear my heart just—paused.
Matt used to hum that under his breath when he was baking. He'd point at me like a dork during the "I love you from the first time" line.
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or cry.
Instead, I wiped my eyes, smiled at a customer, and sold them lemon bread.
I keep telling myself I left that world behind. That maybe the universe needed us to be apart.
But it's hard when everything reminds me of him.
I'm okay. I think. Or at least I'm learning how to be.
And maybe that's enough for now.
Anyway… I'll write more tomorrow. Or not.
I don't know.
I just needed to get this out.
—Nate
_________
It was late afternoon in Paris, the kind where the light turned gold and the shadows stretched long across cobblestone.
Matt had a hood pulled over his head, not because he was hiding—he just didn't want to be noticed. The city felt too quiet for someone like him, someone who'd lived under stage lights and the noise of the crowd.
He was supposed to be heading to a meeting. A collab with a French producer. Big label, even bigger opportunity. But Paris was winding, and so was Matt's heart. He took the long way.
That's when he saw it.
A quaint little bakery tucked into a quiet street corner.
The display was subtle: woven baskets with fresh pain au chocolat, cinnamon rolls twisted with elegance, and a tiny chalkboard that said, "Please take your time. The bread isn't going anywhere, and neither are we."
Matt's steps slowed.
Something about it. The font. The handwriting. The lace-curtained windows. The dried flowers pinned to the wall in a frame that looked hand-pressed.
He took a breath.
For a moment, it felt like he had time-traveled.
Like he was walking into a memory from a dream he hadn't dared to have for years.
Matt shook his head. "Don't be stupid," he muttered under his breath, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. His eyes lingered on the name of the shop for a second longer than necessary.
He didn't go in.
He didn't even glance again.
He just turned and walked down the street, the sound of his boots soft against the cobbles.
But he didn't know—
Inside, just beyond that very window, in the warmth of the kitchen behind soft, flour-dusted counters… Nate suddenly stopped kneading.
He looked up. Stared blankly for a second, as if someone had called his name without saying a word.
The whisk slipped from his fingers and landed in the bowl with a soft thud.
His heart skipped—no, it lunged toward the air like it was chasing something unseen.
He turned his head toward the window, but there was no one there. Just the soft sway of the curtain, and the smell of cardamom and sunlit air.
Still.
Something clung to him.
Familiar.
Heavy.
Like the scent of someone you once loved walking past just before you noticed they were gone.
And in his chest, Nate whispered softly without even meaning to—
"Matt?"
__________
"Nate," Gabriel says quietly.
No response.
Nate is still wiping the same spot, lost in thought. His brows are knitted like he's halfway between remembering and forgetting. He doesn't even notice Gabriel take a few steps closer.
"You used to look at me when I talked to you," Gabriel says, softer now. "Now you're always looking past me."
The cloth in Nate's hand stills.
The words don't come with blame. There's no edge. Just truth—gentle, clear, and impossible to ignore.
Nate turns, startled, but says nothing. His lips part like he might argue, but the denial never comes. Instead, he lets the cloth fall onto the counter and leans against it.
"I'm sorry," Nate murmurs.
Gabriel smiles, the way people do when they've already known the answer for a while but waited patiently for it to be said aloud.
"It's okay," Gabriel replies. "You don't need to apologize for where your heart chooses to rest."
A pause. Only the sound of the oven fan humming low and the faint patter of rain outside.
"I thought maybe, with enough time, maybe I could be enough," Gabriel adds, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it's not about being enough, is it? It's about being... it."
Nate closes his eyes. His heart aches in that quiet way it always does when something kind and painful happens at once.
"I wanted to be present," Nate says, "but part of me... never stopped being somewhere else."
Gabriel nods. Then walks toward him. "I know. I saw it every time you looked out that window. Every time you smiled at something I couldn't see."
Then silence again.
But it's not the heavy, awkward kind. It's the kind where two people gently loosen the strings that once tied them tightly.
Gabriel places a hand on Nate's shoulder. "But I'm still here. As your friend, if you'll have me."
Nate's throat tightens. "Always."
Just then, Nate's phone buzzes on the counter.
He glances at it—an unread message. From Zeke.
"Jake's death anniversary is in two weeks. We're planning something small. I thought you should know. Brice misses you—even if he won't say it."
Nate stares at the screen, the words turning into weight in his chest. His thumb hovers above it, then falls.
Gabriel steps beside him and catches a glimpse of the name.
"You should go," he says gently. "For Jake. For Brice."
Nate swallows. "But it's... Thailand. It's everything I walked away from."
Gabriel nods. "Maybe. Or maybe it's everything that's still waiting for you."
Nate turns to look at him. "I don't want to go alone."
"You won't." Gabriel smiles, firm and sincere. "I'll go with you."
For the first time in a long time, Nate doesn't feel like he's running toward something—or away.
He just feels ready.
And that's new.
And terrifying.
And maybe, finally... good.
__________
The doors slide open with a familiar whoosh, and warm, humid Thai air hits Nate's face like a memory. The scent of street food, the chatter of locals, the faint screech of tuk-tuks echoing even from afar—it all floods in at once.
Beside him, Gabriel adjusts his sling bag. "Feels hotter than I remember."
Nate exhales slowly. "Feels like home… and ghosts."
They don't even get the chance to look around before—
"NATE!"
Zeke waves furiously from the crowd, sunglasses on, holding a cardboard sign that reads:
"WELCOME BACK, RUNAWAY PRINCE + HIS FRENCH SIDEKICK"
Gabriel snorts. Nate groans.
"You missed this?" Gabriel teases.
Nate, already blushing, starts walking. "Don't make me turn around."
Zeke meets them halfway, pulling Nate into a tight, unexpected hug that lingers longer than it should.
"Took you long enough," Zeke mutters.
Nate doesn't reply—he just nods. The words caught somewhere between guilt and gratitude.
Thailand welcomed him not with parades,
but with something far more terrifying:
People who still cared.
_________
The door clicked open and Nate stepped inside cautiously, suitcase wheels barely grazing the floor. He hadn't been here in five years—but the scent of vanilla air freshener and mint shampoo felt like a punch to the chest. The space hadn't changed. Not really. Maybe a few new cushions, a new plant, but everything else?
Still them.
Brice was on the couch, one leg tucked under the other, scrolling absentmindedly through his phone with a mug in hand. He looked up the moment Nate entered—and stilled.
The reaction wasn't dramatic. No wide eyes. No gasps. No running hugs.
Just silence.
And a sip from his mug.
Zeke nudged Nate forward with a gentle pat on the back. "I'll, uh… give you two some time." He looked at Luther, who nodded, and they both stepped out, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
Now it was just the two of them.
Nate shifted awkwardly, unsure whether to sit or stand. "Brice…"
Brice didn't look up. His phone screen remained lit, but he wasn't scrolling anymore.
"I didn't know how to reach out," Nate started, voice trembling. "And I—I know it's not enough, but I'm sorry. For leaving. For disappearing. For not being there when—"
"When Jake died?" Brice interrupted, finally lifting his gaze.
Nate froze. He couldn't meet those eyes.
Brice set the mug down. "You know, I used to picture this moment a lot," he said. "Like, how I'd react. If I'd cry. If I'd yell at you. If I'd just hug you and pretend nothing ever happened."
His voice didn't rise. It didn't crack. But every word was laced with grief held far too long.
"But turns out," Brice continued, "it's worse when you don't feel anything anymore. When you waited so long to talk to someone that the anger burned out and all that's left is just… ash."
Nate's throat tightened. "Brice—"
"I was there, Nate." Brice looked straight at him now. "When you were spiraling. When Matt broke your heart. When you cried on my shoulder because you didn't know who you were without the cameras. I was there every damn time you needed someone."
He stood slowly, walking toward Nate until there was barely a foot between them.
"And the one time I needed you—when the person I loved most in this world died—you weren't there. You didn't even call. You didn't even know."
Nate's lips parted, but no words came.
Brice exhaled sharply. "Do you know how that felt? Watching everyone show up with flowers and food and messages while I kept refreshing my inbox hoping you'd say something—anything. But there was nothing, Nate. Nothing."
Tears welled in Nate's eyes. "I didn't mean to abandon you."
"But you did," Brice said softly.
That made it worse somehow—that he wasn't yelling, wasn't angry anymore.
Just hurt.
"I thought I'd hate you," Brice went on, voice thickening. "But the truth is, I missed you. Even when I hated you for not showing up."
Silence settled like dust between them. Heavy. Untouched.
Nate looked down at his hands. "I came back… because Zeke told me. And because I—I couldn't carry the guilt anymore. You didn't deserve that. Jake didn't. I'll never forgive myself for that, Brice."
Brice blinked, and this time, his eyes shimmered. "I don't need your guilt, Nate. I just needed my friend."
Nate stepped forward, slowly. "Then let me be him again. If you'll let me."
Brice studied him for a long moment. Then turned away, wiping at his eyes quickly.
"I don't know if I can. Not yet."
Nate nodded, the ache in his chest sharp and real. "I'll wait. However long it takes."
Brice didn't answer, but he didn't walk away either. And for now, maybe that was enough.
From the hallway outside, Zeke and Luther leaned against the wall—silent witnesses to the pain and healing that would take time.
________
The stone was simple. Jake never liked anything grand. His name carved clean and soft across polished marble, his birth and death dates, and beneath it, an etched line: "Loved loud. Laughed louder."
They came every year—Brice, Zeke, Luther, Ciandrei—and this time, Nate.
It had been two years.
And yet, standing there now, it felt both like a century and just yesterday.
Nate's hands fidgeted with a paper plate, food untouched. His gaze drifted around the group.
Ciandrei saw him first. His eyes widened and welled up instantly. He rushed over with a bittersweet smile.
"Nate," He said, voice cracking as he pulled him into a tight embrace. "God, I thought I'd never see you here again."
"I didn't think I'd ever come back," Nate whispered, burying his face into his shoulder, the guilt hanging between them like a shadow.
They pulled apart, teary but smiling.
The group sat in circles around the grave, a speaker playing Jake's old favorite playlist—mostly 90s hits and soft acoustic love songs he made everyone listen to at least once. They laughed at the memory of his obnoxious dancing, the way he'd sing with exaggerated vibrato, and how he always pretended to hate spicy food even though he loved it.
Zeke poured soda into plastic cups. Luther unwrapped lumpia and grilled chicken from a takeout box. Ciandrei passed out the paper napkins.
Nate sat quietly among them, eyes often flicking over to Brice.
Brice was… there. Present. But not really. He laughed a little, nodded along, but his smile never reached the way it used to. It was clipped. Guarded.
And when Nate tried to catch his gaze, Brice looked away.
Something in Nate's chest pulled tight.
The version of Brice he used to know—the one who sang loudly, cried shamelessly, hugged like it was the last time every time—they weren't the same anymore.
And Nate knew why.
"I miss him," Nate said softly to no one in particular. "I think about what he'd say if he saw us now."
Zeke replied, "He'd tell you to stop being dramatic and pass the chicken."
They all chuckled. Even Brice.
Nate stood slowly, wiping the grass from his pants, and stepped away for a breath. The music, the voices, the ache—it all tangled in his chest. He needed a second.
He walked toward the edge of the cemetery, where the sunlight broke through a line of acacia trees, where the breeze carried laughter like a memory.
And then he stopped.
Right across the clearing.
Standing there—frozen, unmoving, like time had snapped in half—was Matt.
Wearing black jeans, a soft beige polo, and a stunned expression that mirrored Nate's own.
He hadn't been there all day. Not with the others. Not with anyone.
But now he was.
Alone.
Nate's breath caught.
Matt was just... looking at him.
Like the world fell away and it was five years ago. Or one year ago. Or yesterday.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them spoke.
Nate's lips parted—
//