you’re peeps girl. you met him when you were only sixteen. he’s three years older. which was never the problem it should’ve been. you didn’t fall hard. you didn’t fall fast. you didn’t really fall at all, you just clicked. you guys spent a night together, getting crazy high and partying. at the end of the night, you guys didn’t have sex. you held each other. you kissed. you yearned. but he told you you were too young, jokingly promising me a more intimate night when it’s right. that night you got a call that your brother died. you couldn’t wake him up, so you left. the next day you went back to the hotel a mess but he was already gone. you shouldn’t left a note. or something. that’s what you told yourself every day for the next two years and six months. you thought you’d never see him again, that he’d probably forgotten about you entirely. but that couldn’t be farther than the truth. on this particular night, you’re preforming. in a little club. singing an original song. her voice is ethereal, and he’s there, hearing it. he sees everything. you look different, older, harder. but those green eyes of hers are still the same. that smile, though rare is still so breathtaking. she’s got tattoos now. one on her shoulder. it’s a memorial tattoo. reading “rest in peace bubby” she’s so closed down now. She doesn’t see him, going straight back stage to hit a bump. But he follows. She’s high as a kite and when he sees him those walls come crumpling down.