THE MAN WHO CAN'T BE MOVED
MATT'S POV
It was supposed to be the night I told him everything.
My last song was for him.
Every word of it.
Every note.
Even the way I looked into the crowd, pretending I wasn't hoping I'd find him there, maybe near the back, maybe wearing something ridiculous like he always did to hide in plain sight.
I didn't know he was really there.
Not until it was too late.
Not until the confetti fell, the lights flared, and Yumi kissed me in front of thousands — and Nate saw it.
It was like watching my whole future crumble in one soft, unwelcome press of lips.
I froze.
My mind screamed.
I didn't kiss back — I didn't even react — but the damage was done.
And by the time I ran off stage, ripping off my in-ears, trying to call him—
He was gone.
No answer. No reply. Just a sinking black silence from the one person I was trying to find again.
I waited backstage for hours that night.
I skipped the after-party. Ignored the press. Pushed away the stylists and handlers asking me to pose for victory shots. It didn't feel like a victory.
It felt like grief.
The next morning, I showed up at his condo.
Empty.
The curtains were drawn. His keys left on the counter. No sign of his friends. No signs of him.
I texted. Called. Sent voice messages, long ones — apologizing, explaining.
Yumi had surprised me. It was for the cameras. There was nothing between us. Nothing real.
I should have pushed her away faster. I should have known better. I should have looked harder that night.
Two weeks passed.
Then a month.
Then two.
His social media went cold. Friends stopped responding when I asked. Brice went quiet. Jake only said, "Give him space."
But I knew what "space" meant this time.
Nate didn't just leave me. He left everything.
And I was too late to stop him.
The worst part?
He didn't even let me explain.
Not properly.
Not with shaking hands and desperate truths.
Not with real words.
Not with the softness we always gave each other in our worst moments.
And God, I would've done anything to make it right.
I would've fallen to my knees if that's what it took.
I would've begged.
I would've let him scream, cry, throw things — if it meant I could show him the truth beneath the mess.
But I never got the chance.
Because Nate disappeared like a ghost into smoke, and I—
I was the fool who let him slip through my fingers.
And in every mirror since, I still see the man who couldn't hold on.
To him.
To love.
To the only thing that ever felt like home.
________
The rain poured that morning. Hard. Loud. Like grief that refused to be silenced.
Matt stood outside the gate of Nate's family home in Chiang Mai, soaked from head to toe, eyes bloodshot, lips pale from the cold—but the ache inside him burned worse than any chill.
He hadn't slept in days.
He hadn't eaten in hours.
But he had hope.
"Please," Matt pleaded, eyes locked on Nate's mother standing at the doorway, her arms crossed, her face carved in silence. "I just need to know if he's okay."
Her expression didn't change. "He left. Just like that. No goodbye. No warning."
"I didn't mean—what happened with Yumi, it wasn't—" Matt choked. "It was a misunderstanding. She kissed me. I didn't—"
Her hand lifted.
Silence.
Sharp. Final.
"Matt, you were good to my son," she said slowly. "But you were also the reason he broke down. I don't know where he is. And if I did… I wouldn't tell you."
Matt's legs buckled. He fell to his knees right there in the mud, hands clutching at his chest like he could physically hold his crumbling heart.
He begged. Voice hoarse. "I love him."
The door closed.
And the rain kept falling.
The news spread fast among old friends.
That Matt came looking for Nate again.
That he showed up to the family home like a ghost from the past, drenched and desperate.
Gabriel found him the next day.
They hadn't spoken since the night everything shattered.
"You've got some nerve," Gabriel said, standing in the back alley behind a recording studio, fists clenched. "Showing up again like that."
Matt barely registered his presence. He looked like a shell of himself—eyebags deep, lips bitten raw. "Did you… did he ever tell you where he went?"
The punch landed squarely on Matt's jaw before he finished his sentence.
He stumbled back, lip bleeding, stunned—but didn't retaliate.
Gabriel glared. "You don't get to ask that. You ruined him. And then you lost the right to look for him."
Matt wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, staring at it. "I didn't even get to say sorry…"
"He waited for you," Gabriel said coldly. "Until he stopped hoping."
__________
The passport in Matt's hand was worn out by the time spring came. The leather soft, frayed at the edges, and the pages inside heavy with inked stamps from cities he barely remembered anymore. They weren't memories. They were milestones of desperation. Of flights booked in the dead of night. Of hotel rooms he couldn't sleep in. Of streets he walked aimlessly hoping to catch a glimpse of someone he once loved more than fame, more than music, more than himself.
And maybe he still did.
It started with Manila.
After that concert—the one where Yumi kissed him—he had run after Nate the moment the lights dimmed. He hadn't even realized she had kissed him until it was over and he saw Nate's face from the crowd. Crushed. Betrayed. A face that didn't scream anger, just heartbreak.
And then Nate was gone.
Completely.
No texts. No calls. No tweets. Not even a hint of where he went.
Matt thought it would pass. That Nate was just cooling off.
It didn't.
So he searched.
First Bangkok. Then Chiang Mai. Then Singapore. Seoul. Tokyo. New York. Florence. London. Ho Chi Minh. Berlin. Paris.
Every time, the crew asked, "Is this a promo tour?"
Matt didn't answer.
They thought he was ambitious. Dedicated. Committed to global domination.
They didn't know he was looking.
Always looking.
It wasn't romantic.
Not the way fans imagined it.
It was haunting.
Matt hadn't slept more than four hours in months. He was thinner. Paler. There were days his makeup artist had to cover the shadows beneath his eyes, the deep hollows that didn't go away no matter how much concealer they tried.
He stopped eating full meals. "Later," he'd say. "I'm not hungry."
He was always tired, yet never rested.
And his eyes—
God, his eyes looked like he was constantly searching through fog.
There were times he'd ask strangers: "Have you seen him?"
He showed photos to a café owner in Florence. To a record store clerk in Seoul. To a street performer in Tokyo.
They shook their heads with polite confusion. He always nodded, whispered thanks, and walked away before they could see the crack in his chest widen again.
He released an album that year.
It wasn't flashy.
It was raw.
Every lyric bled with longing.
His producer cried during the recording of track seven.
"You okay?" they asked when Matt left the booth, voice hoarse, eyes red.
"I'm fine," he lied. "Just allergies."
But there were no allergies in Paris in November.
That's where he ended up next.
He walked the Seine until his legs gave out. Sat on a bench with a cup of black coffee he didn't drink. He didn't need the caffeine. His body was already running on nothing.
He passed a bakery with plants in the window and books stacked on a little table by the counter. Something about it made his lungs freeze.
It reminded him of Nate.
But he didn't go in.
He couldn't bear to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was close… only to be wrong again.
So he walked away.
And behind that window, hidden in the blur of morning light, Nate baked bread.
The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
By the eighth month, Matt collapsed.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way.
He just... folded.
At a soundcheck in Berlin, he stood under the lights, mic in hand, staring blankly at the setlist. His manager called his name twice. Then a third time. He didn't respond.
His knees buckled.
His head hit the floor with a dull thud that echoed through the empty arena.
When he woke up, the medic said he was severely dehydrated. Exhausted. Malnourished.
"Are you depressed?" they asked gently.
He didn't answer.
He stared at the ceiling and whispered, "I'm just tired of missing him."
His label tried to intervene.
They gave him two months off.
He used it to search more.
Fans noticed the change. They tweeted:
"Matt's smile isn't the same anymore."
"Is it just me or is Matt... sadder now?"
He didn't respond to any of them.
But he kept tweeting lyrics late at night.
Cryptic lines like:
"Still saving your side of the bed."
"I saw your face in someone else's crowd."
"Please... if you see this, just let me know you're okay."
Nate never answered.
But Matt never stopped.
By the two years, he stopped doing interviews.
He didn't want to talk about the album. Or the tour. Or the fame. He didn't want to be anyone's idol anymore.
He just wanted to find the boy who once danced barefoot on the beach, who sang off-key in his living room, who once whispered in his ear, "Even if the world forgets me, promise you won't."
He hadn't.
Not for a second.
Every time he sang, he imagined Nate in the front row.
He left tickets for him in every city. An envelope at the front desk of every hotel.
Just in case.
Just... in case.
And when no one showed up to claim them, he cried in the shower.
Quietly.
Always quietly.
Because the world still saw Matt: the superstar, the heartthrob, the chart-topper.
But behind the closed door of hotel rooms in cities where Nate was never found, Matt was just a boy who couldn't move on.
A man who couldn't be moved.
_________
MYANMAR. 2:17 a.m.
Matt had just come back to his flat, drenched from the city rain. His jacket clung to his body, and the hot tea in his hand was untouched—already cooling on the kitchen counter. He stared out the window, his eyes vacant, his soul nowhere near the cobbled streets or the sleepy stillness of the canal below.
He had just come back from walking the Jordaan district for hours. Another dead lead. Another bakery that looked almost like Nate's style. Another barista who gave a polite shake of the head when he asked about a man named Nate.
His phone rang.
Unknown number.
Matt almost didn't answer. Almost.
But something in him jolted. His fingers picked up.
"Hello?"
There was silence at first, and then a choked voice broke through.
"Matt—it's me, Ciandrei."
His heartbeat stopped. "Ciandrei?"
There was only one reason she would call at this hour.
"What happened?"
Her breath caught. He could hear the trembling on the other end, the way her voice cracked like glass.
"It's Jake," she said. "There was a crash. A car accident near the expressway."
Matt gripped the back of the chair in front of him. "Where is he? What hospital?"
"Bangkok General," she whispered. "He's in surgery. It's bad."
He was already pulling a suitcase out of the closet.
"Don't hang up," he said, throwing clothes in. "I'm coming."
"Matt…"
"I'm coming. Don't hang up."
Bangkok General Hospital. 6:03 p.m.
The sun was just setting when Matt rushed through the sliding doors, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, breath caught in his throat. His manager had tried to stop him from flying back, telling him he hadn't slept, that he needed rest. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could keep him from Jake. Not now.
Brice was pacing the waiting room, eyes wide with fear, sleeves soaked with tears. When he saw Matt, he didn't say a word. He just collapsed into his arms. Matt held him, jaw tight, eyes scanning the white hallway beyond, desperate for a sign of hope.
Luther sat slumped in the corner, head in his hands. Ciandrei was speaking to a nurse, but her voice was a whisper, as though even words might break something irreparable.
"What happened?" Matt asked quietly once Brice pulled away.
"He was driving back from a shoot," Brice croaked. "He was tired. It was raining. A truck swerved."
Matt swallowed.
"And Nate?" he dared to ask.
Brice looked away. "He doesn't know. No one's heard from him."
Matt's heart clenched. "I should've been here," he muttered. "I should've—"
"It's not about you right now," Brice cut in. Not with cruelty. But with grief. "Just pray, Matt. That's all we can do."
8:41 p.m.
The fluorescent lights in the hallway had never looked so harsh. Matt had been staring at the same crack on the floor for an hour, his hands clasped together like a prayer.
He remembered Jake laughing at the worst jokes.
Jake calling him out when he was being too dramatic.
Jake saying, "If you ever hurt Nate again, I'll shave your eyebrows in your sleep."
Now he was behind a door no one could enter.
Time felt like it had frozen, suspended in grief.
Then the door opened.
Everyone stood.
The doctor stepped out, eyes tired, mask pulled down slowly.
"Jake…"
Brice's voice trembled. "How is he?"
The doctor looked at them the way people do when they've had to say something too many times but still never get used to it.
"He didn't make it."
The silence that followed wasn't silence at all.
It was screaming.
Sobbing.
Brice collapsed against the wall, a sound escaping his throat that Matt would never forget.
Luther slammed his fist against the bench, stood up, then sat back down again, trying to hold it in, failing.
Ciandrei covered her mouth and fell to her knees.
And Matt…
Matt just stood there.
Frozen.
Like a part of him had been torn out with the words.
"No," he whispered.
He didn't cry.
Not right away.
He turned and walked toward the wall, pressing his forehead to the cold surface.
And then he let go.
He sobbed.
Gut-wrenching, silent, soul-splitting sobs.
The kind of cry that doesn't ask for comfort—because nothing can fix it.
The kind of cry that echoed years of grief he never let out—losing Nate, and now losing Jake.
Jake was the glue. The chaos. The humor. The one who always called the group "a found family."
And now he was gone.
Gone.
And Nate… Nate wasn't there.
Matt didn't even have the strength to be angry anymore.
Just… empty.
He sank to the ground.
And stayed there.
Until the hallway emptied, and only the sound of the ticking clock remained.
________
The rain had been falling for hours.
Soft, steady, uncaring.
Matt didn't notice the chill anymore. His hoodie was soaked, water trailing down his neck, gathering under his jaw. The city had long grown quiet, and still, he sat—alone—on the same bench he and Nate used to sit on.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring down at the streetlights reflecting in the puddles. Every flicker of a passing car's headlights made his chest tighten. Every silhouette from the far corner of the road made him hope, just for a second, that it would be him.
It never was.
Five years.
Five whole years and Nate never came back to this bench. But Matt did.
Every. Single. Month.
This was the place Nate called their "little escape bubble." After press tours. After fights. After days when the weight of the world felt too loud.
He hadn't moved on.
People thought he had. He was still on stage. Still making albums. Still smiling in press photos.
But none of it was real.
None of it was Nate.
Matt closed his eyes. His hand reached into his pocket, pulling out a small photo. The edges were wrinkled, worn, like it had been held a hundred times too tight.
It was the only photo he had left of Nate smiling against his shoulder in a Ferris wheel—sunset behind them, both cheeks flushed, wind messing their hair.
Matt traced the edges with a trembling thumb. "Where the hell are you?" he whispered. His voice cracked. "You said you'd never vanish on me."
He exhaled a shaky breath and leaned back, tilting his head up to the sky.
"Jake's gone," he murmured.
His voice grew quieter. "He died two years ago and you didn't even know. You weren't there."
Matt blinked up at the rain, his throat clenching. "He asked for you… the last time we saw him at the hospital. And I couldn't say anything because I didn't know where you were."
The tears came.
But they were silent, falling with the rain.
His fingers clutched the photo harder now. His other hand curled around a silver ring tied to a chain around his neck—Nate's ring. He wore it every day. Always hidden. Always close.
"I still write songs about you," he confessed into the night. "I still look for your face in every crowd. Still hear your laugh in places where no one's laughing. I still keep a toothbrush for you in my drawer."
He chuckled, bitter and soft. "I still buy two coffees."
A gust of wind passed, and Matt shivered.
"People think I'm moving forward," he muttered, teeth gritted. "They think I'm fine. But they don't know. They don't know that every night, I fall asleep hugging a ghost."
He shook his head, lowering it again, burying his face in his hands.
"I hate you for leaving me, and I'm sorry for everything. " he whispered.
The truth sat heavy in his chest.
"But I love you more than I know what to do with."
He sat there, soaked, shaking, empty.
The rain didn't stop.
And neither did Matt.
He stayed.
Still.
Waiting.
_________
I didn't plan to come late.
I meant to be there with everyone—early, even—help Brice arrange the candles, help Zeke carry the food. But something inside me… stalled.
I drove past the cemetery entrance twice.
Parked. Unparked. Drove in circles.
It's been two years, and I still can't say goodbye properly. Not to Jake. And definitely not to Nate.
Jake's death… it gutted all of us. But Brice?
It shattered him.
And Nate—
Well. He vanished before the crash.
Before the grief.
Before he had time to yell at me for that accident.
The truth is: I still don't know how he can forgive me.
But I also don't know how to stop loving him.
I walked in quietly. No guitar. No flowers. Just myself. The shell of who I used to be.
The music drifted toward me before I saw them.
Jake's favorite playlist, echoing through tinny speakers.
I almost laughed when I heard "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer. He used to sing that with dramatic hands and a broomstick mic. Always off-key. Always louder than necessary.
I followed the music until I saw them—our friends—sitting in a loose circle around Jake's grave. Plates in hand. Little paper cups. Zeke had a soda bottle tilted toward Luther's cup, mid-pour.
Then I saw Brice. Still quiet. Not fully smiling.
And then—
I saw him.
Nate.
At first, I thought I was hallucinating.
The heat. The grief. The guilt.
But no—he was really there.
He was sitting on the grass, leaning back slightly on his palms, eyes darting everywhere but nowhere near Brice. Hair longer, face softer, older. His smile barely touched his cheeks—but it was there, trying.
I hadn't seen that face in five years.
Five years of writing songs, waiting at train stations, checking every unfamiliar café menu for his favorite dish in case I'd catch him walking out.
Five years of ghosting through cities he loved. Of reading headlines, hoping for a whisper. Of dreaming him into every crowd.
And now, here he was.
In front of Jake's grave.
In front of all of us.
I stayed frozen behind the tree line, the breeze brushing my face, the sunset cutting shadows through the acacias. I couldn't walk forward yet.
I needed a second to believe it.
He stood up, dusting off his pants.
Walked to the edge of the cemetery, only a few feet away from where I stood.
Then our eyes met.
God, I forgot how hard it hit—being seen by him.
It wasn't shock.
It wasn't anger.
It was grief. Regret. Longing. Everything I've been swallowing for half a decade rose to my throat like a lump too sharp to push down.
He blinked.
I blinked.
His lips parted.
I didn't breathe.
I didn't move.
Because if I did—if I so much as stepped forward—I was scared I'd fall apart right there at Jake's grave.
I wanted to run to him.
I wanted to kiss and hug him.
I wanted to ask why he left. Why he let me suffer in silence while pretending the world could just keep turning without him.
But I did none of those things.
I just looked at him.
And he looked right back.
//