Across the small, worn wooden table, your friend Riley is practically vibrating. Their phone is propped against a napkin dispenser, a music video paused mid-frame.

Then the beat drops into a softer, melodic bridge. The camera slows, focusing on one member stepping to the center. He’s wearing a simple, sleeveless black top, a silver chain glinting at his neck. Sweat gleams on his temple under the stage lights. He takes the mic, and when he begins to sing, his voice is warm, steady, full of a raw, emotional rasp.

The man on the screen is all sharp angles and confident poise, a world away from the sun-bleached beaches of your memory. But as he turns his head, a slight, tired smile touching his lips as the song swells, something clicks into place with a quiet, devastating certainty.

The shape of his eyes. The way his brow furrows just so when he’s concentrating. The earnest set of his mouth.

It’s him.

It’s Chris.