THE LOST SCENE
I turned my head to stretch, to breathe, to escape the tight coil in my chest. The sun filtered through the acacia trees, golden and soft—and then, I froze.
Right across the clearing.
He stood like a statue lost in time. My heart stopped.
For a split second, I didn't recognize him.
He wasn't the same Matt I used to know—the boy with light in his eyes and color in his skin. This Matt looked like a ghost of him.
Thinner. Paler. His hair was longer, curling just under his jaw, unkempt like he hadn't cared in months. His face was sharp with exhaustion, his cheeks sunken, his posture slouched with some invisible weight.
But his eyes…
They were the same.
Still looking at me like I was the only person in the world who could ruin him.
I couldn't move. I couldn't speak.
Every memory of him came flooding back in one violent crash—the night of the Manila concert, the kiss I saw, the way he never explained. How I waited. How I cried. How I packed my entire life into a silence and disappeared.
I told myself I had made peace with it.
But now, seeing him?
No closure ever prepared me for this.
I wanted to run to him.
God, I wanted to wrap my arms around him and cry into his neck and ask him if it still hurt the way it hurt me. If he still thought about the bakery. The lake. The Ferris wheel. The mornings.
But I didn't.
Because no matter how broken he looked…
He broke me first.
After the moment passed, after Ciandrei noticed me and hugged me like the world hadn't shifted just moments ago, I turned away from where Matt had stood.
At the table, I busied myself with handing out water. Napkins. Food. Anything.
I laughed at Zeke's jokes. I nodded when Brice spoke. I smiled for the pictures.
But I never looked back.
And at every gathering after that—dinners, coffee, even just walks—I made sure of one thing:
I never let Matt near me.
Not because I hated him.
But because I didn't trust myself not to forgive him.
Gabriel must've sensed it from the very beginning. He never asked. Never pressed. But he always stayed close—between us. A safe space. A gentle barrier.
When Matt entered the room, I drifted to the opposite side. When he sat near, I stood. When our eyes accidentally met, I looked away first.
I just couldn't go through it again.
Because while Matt looked like he hadn't moved on… I had spent every day trying to convince myself I had to.
I didn't come back for him.
I came back for Brice.
Because if I couldn't be there when Jake left this world… then I would be here now, standing beside the friend who stayed, even when I didn't.
But that didn't mean my heart didn't ache when Matt laughed across the room.
Or that I didn't cry silently every time I caught him watching me like I was still the only thing he'd ever loved.
I just… couldn't do it.
Not yet.
Not again.
Not when I still bled in places he didn't even remember cutting.
___
Matt had always believed that if he ever saw Nate again—if their eyes ever met across time and grief—he would run. He'd hold him, cry into his shoulder, say every word he kept locked inside for half a decade.
But none of that happened.
Because Nate didn't speak to him.
Didn't even look at him.
And maybe that hurt more than the goodbye that was never said.
After the cemetery, the group naturally fell into a pattern of meeting again—old friends trying to stitch together something from what was once golden. Dinners, quiet coffee shop talks, silent glances where laughter used to be.
But every time Matt showed up, Gabriel was there. Not hovering, not loud—but present.
Always at Nate's side.
Guarding him.
Like a silent wall between the past and the man Nate had become.
And Nate—he didn't speak to Matt. Not rudely. Just… carefully. Brief nods. Short acknowledgments. A polite distance.
He had learned how to build walls, too.
Matt noticed it all—the way Nate would shift his seat if he sat too close, how he'd start a conversation with Zeke or Ciandrei to avoid being alone in the same space with him.
He got the message.
Still, it didn't stop his eyes from lingering longer than they should have.
One night, after dinner at Luther's place, the group lingered on the balcony watching city lights blur into stars. Brice poured drinks. Zeke cracked jokes. But Matt couldn't keep his eyes off Nate, who stood across the space, talking softly with Gabriel.
A laugh from Nate echoed.
Matt's stomach twisted.
He turned away.
Brice walked up beside him. "You need to stop," he said flatly.
Matt didn't look at him. "I'm not doing anything."
"Exactly." Brice's voice tightened. "And that's the only thing you should be doing. For now."
Matt's throat bobbed. "He won't even look at me."
"Would you, if you were him?"
Silence.
Brice sighed, setting down his drink. "We love you, Matt. All of us. We know you didn't mean to hurt him. But Nate's not ready to let you back in. And forcing it will just make him run again."
Matt nodded, bitterly swallowing the weight of it. "So what do I do?"
Brice gave a sad smile. "You do what you've been doing for five years. Just... keep loving him. From a distance."
And so Matt did.
The days passed with Nate slipping through gatherings like wind through fingers—untouchable. Matt watched him laugh again. Bake again. Sit under the sun in quiet moments with Gabriel. He watched Nate come back to life—and he wasn't part of it.
He didn't follow him. Didn't corner him.
He simply watched.
Watched the way Nate still bit his lip when thinking hard.
Watched the way his eyes lit up when Zeke teased him about old dramas.
Watched the man he never stopped loving… be fine without him.
And every night, Matt went home to silence.
Opened his notebook.
Wrote another lyric Nate would probably never hear.
And every time, the line circled back to the same truth:
"I loved you then.
I love you still.
I love you even when I'm not allowed to."
_________
It started with a whisper.
An old fan posted a blurry photo—just a shot of us sitting at opposite ends of a long table during Zeke's quiet get-together. Me, nursing a soda. Nate, laughing softly with Brice and Ciandrei. Our shoulders distant. Our eyes never meeting.
But I guess even silence screams when people expect a different story.
The post read:
"Can someone explain why Matt and Nate aren't even talking? Didn't Matt literally spend years looking for him?"
"Is nate being the the man who ran away era ended?"
"please, no one know how I missed my virtual parents."
Then it exploded.
Hashtags. Side-by-side photos of me holding up 'Missing You' tour banners and Nate smiling by Jake's grave. Clips of my cryptic tweets resurfaced.
Fan threads titled:
#TheManWhoCantBeMoved
#WhatDidNateMiss
#StillSavingThatSeat #Natethemanwhoranaway
Everyone had theories.
Some thought Nate forgot me.
Others thought I had moved on and was faking misery all along.
But none of them knew the truth:
I would've crossed the room for him.
I just didn't know if he'd ever let me.
And Nate?
He had no idea it was all going viral.
Because while the whole world started asking why we weren't talking,
he still hadn't seen the five years I spent screaming into the void.
And I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud.
Not when just sitting in the same room with him still made my heart bruise all over again.
But none of that happened.
Because Nate didn't speak to him.
Didn't even look at him.
And maybe that hurt more than the goodbye that was never said.
________
Nate hugged his knees to his chest, seated on a weathered beanbag near the edge of the rooftop. Brice stepped out from the stairwell behind him, holding two cans of iced coffee. He tossed one gently toward Nate, who caught it with a quiet thanks.
For a while, neither of them said anything.
Just the distant sound of traffic. Someone playing acoustic guitar from a nearby unit. The whistle of air between concrete.
Brice was the first to break the silence.
"You still scrunch your nose when you think too much."
Nate let out a breath, barely a smile. "You still cut people off before they say something too honest."
Brice sat beside him. "Fair enough."
Another long silence stretched between them. This time, it wasn't heavy—just careful. Like both were afraid to move too fast.
"I'm sorry," Brice finally said. His voice cracked. "For not finding you. For not fighting harder when you disappeared. For not… being there."
Nate's eyes widened a bit. "Brice—"
"No, let me say it," Brice interrupted. He leaned back, staring up at the fading blue sky. "I was angry. At you. At everything. But that didn't mean I stopped being your friend. You left, and yeah, it hurt—but I never wanted you to think I hated you. I just missed you."
Nate blinked fast, his voice low and trembling. "I missed you, too. Every goddamn day."
Their fingers brushed on the shared beanbag. It was small, but enough.
"I thought I didn't deserve any of you anymore," Nate said. "Especially after Jake… I should've been here."
Brice closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again slowly. "Maybe. But grief doesn't come with instructions. And heartbreak? That thing can warp the smartest people into ghosts."
Nate smiled weakly. "Is that what I am? A ghost?"
"No," Brice said, nudging his shoulder. "You're just someone who needed time. But if you're only here because of me—if being in the same air as Matt is making you feel like you can't breathe—then don't force yourself to stay."
Nate looked down. His grip on the coffee tightened. "I don't know how to be around him. I don't know if I'm ready to hear what he has to say. Or what I might say back."
Brice exhaled. "Then don't. Not yet. I'll be okay. We're okay now."
Nate looked up, eyes glassy. "Are we really?"
Brice nodded. "I forgive you. And I still love you. Always will."
They leaned into each other, forehead to forehead, like they used to when the world felt too heavy and too loud.
"I'll be here," Brice whispered. "Whether you go back to Paris, or stay. Whether you avoid Matt for another five years, or talk to him tomorrow. I'll be here."
_________
It was the first gathering where everyone was present.
Zeke had planned the whole thing—reserved the rooftop, made sure the playlist had all of Brice's throwback anthems, and even begged the chef to prepare Jake's favorite lemon chicken as a subtle tribute. The evening breeze was kind, carrying laughter in bursts and wafts of grilled food from nearby stalls.
Nate arrived early with Gabriel, who carried a small box wrapped in iridescent blue—Brice's gift. They took a spot at the far end of the table. Nate smiled when he greeted everyone, but his eyes flicked around like he was expecting something... or someone. Or maybe dreading.
Then Matt walked in.
Late. Quiet. Wearing a black sweater and jeans, hair tied loosely, and a wine bottle in one hand. He looked... older. A bit thinner than before. Tired in the way a candle looks when it's burned too long—but still burning.
The table quieted for a beat. Then Zeke clapped his hands dramatically, breaking the tension.
"Look who crawled out of the studio!"
Brice rolled his eyes and reached out for the wine. "If that's cheap, you're sitting at the kid's table."
Matt smiled faintly and took the only seat left—across from Nate.
It wasn't intentional. It just happened.
The dinner began as a slow dance of conversation. Zeke complained about deadlines. Ciandrei told a story about how he got stuck in an elevator with a cat and an old lady who thought he was a ghost. Luther passed around a photo book of Jake, worn and smudged from the years, but still full of memories.
Brice, the birthday boy, gave a dramatic toast.
"To old friends, broken hearts, second chances, and lemon chicken. May we all cry a little less this year."
Laughter.
Even Nate chuckled.
Even Matt smiled.
Gabriel didn't say much. He stayed beside Nate the entire time, gentle and polite, but guarded. Every time Matt spoke, Gabriel's eyes flicked toward him, calculating. Watching.
Matt noticed.
And so did Nate.
At some point, Ciandrei called the waiter for dessert, and the table dissolved into scattered chats and wine pours. Zeke took over the music with his phone, playing a soft remix of old 2000s ballads.
Matt leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting across the rooftop.
That's when he saw him.
Nate.
Not talking. Just laughing at something Luther said.
Hair grown a little longer now. Eyes softer. Laugh lines more present.
Content.
Not the kind of happiness that bounces off the walls or posts photos with filters. But the kind that quietly says, "I've been through hell, and I'm okay now."
It was that moment that Matt knew—he couldn't keep showing up like this. Couldn't keep clinging to the hope that maybe Nate still needed him. Maybe Nate didn't.
And maybe Matt had to stop needing him too.
So Matt looked away.
He made a silent promise to himself: After tonight, I'll let him be. I'll love him quietly. From far away.
Then it happened.
One glance. Across the table.
Nate looked up.
Eyes locked.
And everything around them fell into static.
The chatter. The music. The clinking of forks.
Gone.
There was no anger. No smile. No relief. Just... recognition.
The way two people who've shared lifetimes of silence finally hear the same song again.
Matt's heart beat against his ribs.
Nate didn't look away.
Neither did he.
Until Brice loudly groaned, "Can we please NOT have a soap opera at my birthday? Thanks."
Everyone laughed.
Nate blinked. Looked down.
Matt exhaled. Looked away.
________
The afternoon sun filtered through the half-open blinds of their shared condo, throwing soft shadows across the wooden floor. The living room looked like a storm had passed—boxes stacked, old magazines strewn across the rug, a mountain of tangled chargers, clothes that hadn't been worn in years, and a few embarrassing high school relics Zeke dramatically held hostage for future blackmail.
"Why do we have five rice cookers?" Brice groaned, holding one up like it had personally offended him.
"Because Nate used to burn rice in every brand," Zeke teased, elbowing him.
Luther was curled up beside an open box of vinyl records, carefully sorting them. "This one still smells like Jake's cologne," he said softly, holding it closer to his nose.
It was a rare day—the four of them, together, decluttering a space that once held so many of their shared years. They laughed. They paused. Sometimes they fell silent for a minute too long when a specific item turned up, like an old polaroid or one of Jake's hand-written playlists.
Nate was knee-deep in a bin labeled "Misc Tech", digging through it with the same detached curiosity one has when untangling old headphones.
Until his hand landed on something cold. Slim. Familiar.
He froze.
His breath hitched for just a second.
"What is it?" Luther asked, glancing over.
Nate slowly pulled it out.
An old phone.
His old phone.
The same one he lost five years ago.
The same one from the night everything fell apart.
The Manila tour. The concert. The chaos. The heartbreak.
"I thought I lost this…" Nate murmured.
Brice turned from across the room, pausing as he saw what Nate held.
"No," Brice said gently. "You left it in the stadium. You dropped it where we stood. I found it that same night."
Nate looked up, stunned.
"You… kept it?"
Brice shrugged. "Didn't know if you'd ever want it back. I didn't open it. Thought if the day ever came… I'd just give it to you."
Nate stared at the device in his hand. It was scuffed. The screen was faintly cracked on the side. But it still held weight. It still felt like it remembered.
He didn't turn it on.
Not yet.
Instead, he slipped it into his jacket pocket, heart pacing faster than before.
Then came a knock on the slightly open door.
Gabriel.
Wearing a neutral expression, he leaned on the frame with his hands tucked in his coat pockets. "Hey… sorry to interrupt," he said lightly, but his tone was firm. "Nate, can I borrow you for a second?"
All eyes briefly shifted to Nate.
He stood, giving a polite nod to the others. "Sure."
He followed Gabriel down the narrow hallway to the balcony, where the golden hour sun lit the buildings in warm, forgiving light. From here, the city looked calm. Still. As if none of its buildings ever held heartbreak or silence.
Gabriel leaned on the railing, arms crossed, staring into the horizon like it had answers for him.
Nate stood quietly beside him, sensing something more than casual in the air.
"I'm not trying to pressure you," Gabriel started, voice low. "But… I need to ask you something."
Nate stayed quiet, waiting.
Gabriel exhaled. "Do you still want to go back to Paris?"
The question hung in the air—not like an accusation, not even a plea. Just a crossroad. Spoken softly, but filled with unsaid layers.
Gab didn't look at Nate, but his voice trembled just slightly when he added, "I mean… with me. You still have your life there. The bakery. Your routines. Peace. You always said Paris gave you quiet. And I—"
He stopped himself.
Then continued, "But if staying here means something else… if you're thinking of reopening old chapters…" He paused again, finally looking Nate in the eye. "I just need to know. Because I won't hold you back. I won't beg you to stay in a life you've outgrown."
Nate felt his chest twist. Gabriel's gaze was soft—but tired. Resigned. Like someone who knew he was standing on the edge of goodbye, but was willing to fall if it meant giving the other a choice.
"I don't know yet," Nate said honestly. "Paris… it gave me peace. And you… gave me kindness. Safety. But here—" He faltered, pressing his hand lightly to the pocket where his old phone sat. "Here feels like everything I buried is starting to breathe again."
Gabriel nodded slowly.
"Are you still in love with him?" Gabriel asked, gently.
Nate looked down. The truth was too complicated for just yes or no. It pulsed in memories, in unfinished songs, in unspoken pain.
"I think I never stopped missing him," Nate whispered.
Gabriel didn't speak for a long moment.
Then he gave a small, understanding smile.
"That's okay," he said. "I just needed to know if I should keep holding space in Paris for you."
Nate's eyes welled, but he didn't let them fall. He reached out and lightly touched Gabriel's arm. "You've been nothing but good to me."
Gabriel's smile deepened, this time more bittersweet than anything else. "Then don't be sorry. Just… be sure. For both of us."
And with that, he stepped back, giving Nate space, and returned inside—leaving Nate alone on the balcony, the cool air brushing past his cheeks, and the old phone still warm against his chest.
Nate sat on the edge of the chair, fingers trembling slightly as he turned the old phone over in his hands. The casing was cracked in the corner, smudged and aged, but still worked when he held down the power button.
It flickered to life.
The screen glowed, dim but alive—like a ghost waking up after years of silence.
It was strange… how just the sound of the start-up tone could open a wound.
Notifications flooded the screen in a sudden wave, each ping echoing louder in Nate's ears. Missed calls. Unread messages. And then—
1 Saved Voicemail.
He stared at it.
Swallowed hard.
Opened it.
The audio clicked, and a breath came through—then Matt's voice, cracked and hollow. The timestamp was five years ago, right after the Manila concert. The night everything broke.
"Nate… I—I don't know where you are. I've been calling. I've been everywhere. I don't even know if this'll reach you. God, I hope it does."
There was a pause. A shaky inhale.
"What you saw—what happened with Yumi… it wasn't what it looked like. I didn't know she was going to do that. I would never—Nate, I swear, I would never let anything come between us."
Another pause. Longer. Like Matt was choking on his own voice.
"But I get it if you won't come back. I get it if you're done. I just…"
A sound—so quiet, but so raw—it sounded like Matt was holding back sobs.
"I love you. I don't know how to stop. I don't want to. But if this is goodbye, if this is the last thing I ever get to say to you… please know I waited. I waited at the stadium for hours. And I'll keep waiting, if that's what it takes."
The recording ended with a quiet exhale.
Nate didn't move. His thumb hovered over the screen, but his body was frozen.
He'd forgotten what Matt's voice sounded like when it wasn't performed or poised. This was Matt stripped bare—aching, pleading, human.
A single tear slipped down Nate's cheek.
Then another.
He slowly opened the gallery. His heart braced for the memories like stepping into a house you once burned down.
Photos filled the screen: Matt grinning wide beside him, selfies during midnight drives, blurry shots of Nate pretending not to pose while Matt stole photos. One where they were baking cookies—flour all over their faces. Another, Nate asleep on Matt's chest, the corner of the frame barely capturing Matt's soft smile as he looked at him.
And videos.
A birthday surprise. A beach sunset. That ridiculous clip of Matt dancing in the living room wearing socks on tile—and inevitably falling.
Laughter filled the room. From the past.
And Nate broke.
He curled forward, gripping the phone tight as if it could bridge time. Silent sobs shook through him. His shoulders heaved. He tried to breathe, but everything caught in his throat—grief, regret, guilt, love.
Five years of silence cracked open like a dam.
Gabriel had been kindness. Paris had been peace.
But Matt… Matt was everything he lost.
He stared at the paused voicemail screen, fingers brushing over the name: "Matt 🖤."
That heart. He'd forgotten it was there.
But somehow, it had never really gone away.
And now, for the first time in five years, Nate wasn't sure where he stood anymore.
All he knew… was that his heart hadn't truly left that stadium either.
And maybe—just maybe—it was time to stop running.
//