Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The night is cold, damp. The sidewalk smells like wet cigarettes and spilled beer, and I don’t know if I want to run or throw up.

My feet move on their own.

I should be heading home. Or at the very least, staying away from this kind of scene. But no, apparently my brain enjoys a bit of psychological torture.

The night wind tastes metallic, like the air after rain. The wet street glistened under the lamplight, and cars passed slowly.

I rolled my coat sleeve down to my hand, tucking my fingers inside the fabric like I used to do as a kid. My palms were sweating. My head was spinning.

James.

His name sounded wrong inside me. Like something I shouldn’t touch anymore. But there I was, walking toward an old, dark bar in South London, because he asked. Because he said he had something to tell me about Joe.

And Joe is my weakness. Always has been.

The city felt quieter than usual. Not calm — honking horns, distant laughter, people running from the cold — but everything sounded muffled, like I was hearing it all from underwater.

What kind of person does that make me, going to him? Agreeing to hear whatever he has to say? I hate this guy. And I hate even more the fact that part of me wants him to have something to give me. Some explanation. Some key to help me understand what the hell that thing between me and Joe was.

When I got to the bar, I didn’t go in right away. I stood outside for a bit, looking through the fogged-up window. Inside, there were only a few people. The lighting was dim, the music slow. Worn-out wooden tables, half-empty glasses. It had that unresolved-feelings kind of smell. I almost left.

But I walked in.

The heat hit my face like a slap. The air smelled of beer, leather, and something smoked. I found a table in the corner, near the window. Ordered a water without looking at the waiter. My stomach couldn’t handle alcohol right now.

I kept messing with the glass, watching the condensation run down the sides. I listened to two guys at the next table — they were talking about football or politics, I don’t know. The words came like noise, meaningless, while my heart thudded hard in my chest.

Most of the tables were empty. The kind of place where people speak quietly and avoid eye contact.

I waited.

Ten minutes.

Twelve.

Fifteen.

Every extra minute was torture. My leg was shaking. I kept reading and rereading the drink labels on the wall like they were going to save my sanity.

He showed up.

Dark gray coat, unshaven, eyes that couldn’t decide whether to ask for forgiveness or permission. He pulled down his hood and came straight to me. I sat up straighter, trying to look less annoyed than I really was.

“Kit. Thanks for coming.”

“Get to the point, James.”

He nodded, not bothering to fake politeness. There was no room for small talk. He took a deep breath, resting his forearms on the table, fingers intertwined. He ran a hand over his face, stubble scratching, his gaze tired.

“I wanted to reach out sooner. But… I didn’t know if it was my place.”

“And now you do?”

“Now I don’t care anymore. I just… need to say it.”

I forced myself to hold his gaze. Every part of me wanted to run. But my mind needed to hear it.

James blinked slowly, like he was choosing each word carefully.

“Joe never loved me.”

Pause. He didn’t say it waiting for a reaction. He just dropped it. Like ripping a bandage off an old wound.

He stared at me, like he was waiting for me to say I know. I stayed quiet. Not because it didn’t hit me. But because it hit so hard I had no reaction ready.

And hearing that from the guy he dated for months was still… strange. Bitter.

“He tried. I swear he tried. He was sweet, present, but there was always something missing. He’d look at me and… he wasn’t really there. I saw it early on. But I stayed. I kept trying. Until one night —” he laughed, dryly “— he said your name in his sleep.”

My stomach flipped.

He ran a hand through his hair, nervous. He wasn’t that confident, put-together James anymore. Just a messed-up guy trying to fix a mistake.

"One day, he slept on the couch. We had argued over something stupid, and I just left him there. In the morning, I went to cover him with a blanket, and he whispered your name. In his sleep. Softly, almost like a plea."

I looked away for a second. Took a deep breath. Stared out the window, like the fogged-up glass could offer me an escape.

"I didn’t say anything at the time. But from that moment, I knew. He could deny it, he could pretend. But you were in him. In a way I never was."

"After that, everything changed," he went on. "He started pulling away, avoiding talking about you two. When I brought it up, he'd shut down. And I started screwing up. Poking. Provoking."

He stopped, stared at the glass of water in front of me like it was hard liquor.

"I started bringing you up just to see how he'd react. He’d say you were just friends. That it was nothing. But his voice..."

James looked at me again.

"Kit, the way he talked about you. The care. The guilt. The silence between the words. I wasn’t stupid. I just pretended not to see it. — When we broke up, I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to show I could hurt too. So I opened Instagram. Left everything visible. For hours. The photos, the comments. Things that should’ve stayed between us."

Silence. Only the sound of dishes being washed somewhere in the distance.

"All I could see was you. In his gestures. In the way he avoided certain songs. How he froze when someone mentioned your name in a conversation. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice. But it was impossible. You were the ghost between us."

I couldn’t speak. My throat felt locked.

I didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t know if I wanted to hear more, if I wanted to walk away and never think about it again, or if I wanted to scream.

James looked too tired to keep going. His eyes avoided mine, but he wasn’t fooling me anymore. He was still waiting for some kind of reaction.

"You shouldn’t have told me this," was all I could say, my voice breaking. The words came out like they were forced, stuck in my throat.

"I know," James said quietly.

"Then why are you doing this now?" I tried to keep the anger from rising. "Why come here, dump all this on me, and still expect what? That I thank you?"

I went quiet for a few seconds. But it wasn’t the cold, frozen kind of silence — it was the kind that trembles from within, like my whole body was trying not to explode.

"You say all this like it’s about redemption," I said, softly, looking at the glass. "But the truth is you tried to screw him over."

James froze mid-movement, like he was about to leave.

"You exposed Joe. His life, his family, his friends. You exposed me. And now you sit here with that remorseful face, thinking saying a few truths erases what you did?"

He opened his mouth, but I went on. I wasn’t giving him space.

"You were cruel. And it wasn’t in a moment of rage. It was calculated. You knew exactly what you were doing when you made that account public again. When you left the photos there, the answers to so many questions, everything. You knew the circus it would cause."

James frowned. "I—"

"Shut up," I snapped. The anger burned low but steady. "You wanted to destroy Joe. And you almost did. You wanted to ruin his image, whatever sense of safety he had left, that tiny bit of privacy he was still clinging to. You wanted him to feel small. Fragile. Like you felt when he left."

James looked away, but I didn’t stop.

"What you didn’t expect — and what still pisses you off — is that his team is good. Fast. They shut it all down the same day. The posts disappeared. The screenshots were buried. They managed the crisis before it became tabloid news or Twitter fodder. Even his fans knew. You realize that? They saw the photos. Reposted for a few seconds. But then they started deleting. They left comments in code. Like ‘don’t share, delete’ or ‘this isn’t what real fans do.’ Even they knew it was too much. That it shouldn’t be out there. Can you grasp how insane that is? His fanbase had more decency than you."

My voice shook for a second, then came back steadier.

"If it had blown up the way you wanted... it would’ve been a scandal. And you know it."

James opened his mouth, closed it again. Swallowed hard.

"You know the kind of spotlight he's under now. Marvel, campaigns, magazines, fashion shows, international contracts. He lives with a target on his back. And you — the one who said you loved him — aimed straight at the bullseye."

I took a step closer, and he flinched slightly. For the first time, he actually looked ashamed.

"You wanted the world to eat him alive. To invade his life, his family’s. You exposed pictures of his mother, James. What if that had gone viral? What if someone had reposted? He’d have to give interviews. Explain himself."

James whispered a "I know," but I ignored it.

"You didn’t just want to hurt. You wanted to ruin. And the only reason you didn’t succeed is because he has good people around him — people who protect him better than you ever did."

I stood there, watching him sink a little deeper into the chair.

"You’re not the villain in a tragic love story. You’re just a petty guy who didn’t know how to lose."

The silence fell hard between us. But this time, it wasn’t paralyzing. It was the kind of silence that follows a punch.

James took a deep breath, resting his hands on the table.

"I’m trying to do the right thing now."

"Now doesn’t mean shit," I said, staring him down. "But at least don’t pretend it’s noble. You’re here because you want to take the weight off. This is about you, not me. Not him."

He didn’t answer. And I didn’t want to hear anything else.

"If you really want to do the right thing... disappear. Stop interfering. Stop speaking for him. And most of all, stop acting like this is your story."

I stood up. Grabbed my coat. Didn’t look back.

"Because it’s not."

— 

I threw the last sentence like I was spitting glass. Got up, shoved the chair back hard enough to make it squeal, and turned my back.

I couldn’t go home.

Just the thought of walking into that apartment, taking off my coat, sitting on the couch and facing the silence... made me sick. Silence had become the enemy. I needed noise. But not the right kind. The wrong kind. I needed movement, distraction, people who had no idea who I was.

I got on the subway like a ghost. Didn’t think about where. Just went. Got off at a station I never use, in a neighborhood I barely knew. Walked streets with no memory. No trace of what my life had become. No posters, no magazine covers, no fans with curious looks or raised phones.

I found a small, dingy bar, open doors and dim lights. A place where no one would recognize me. Where I could sit in the back, order a drink, and pretend I was just another person trying to forget the day.

I walked in. Ordered a beer. Sat at the last table on the left, near the bathroom and a broken jukebox. The table was scratched with old phrases, phone numbers, and stupid doodles made with keys or pens. The kind of place that holds other people’s stories.

I stayed there.

Everything was still spinning in my head like a memory that didn’t want to stop repeating itself.

I remembered the first time Joe hugged me off set. Not one of those technical rehearsal hugs, the kind you do on autopilot, like you're memorizing choreography. But a real one. A hug that didn’t seem to have a specific reason, no camera watching. He was laughing, I was kind of nervous, not sure if it was the right moment, not knowing what to do with my hands. And he, in his own way, just came closer, pulled me into a hug that seemed effortless. He rested his chin on my shoulder, leaned his head there and stayed—no rush, no hurry to leave or to do anything else but… just be there.

At the time, I thought it was normal. Just a colleague thing, you know? That kind of affection that happens when you spend too much time with someone, and in our case, it was all part of the routine. Forced intimacy. The kind of thing you tell yourself is natural because the alternative is thinking there’s something more—and I wasn’t ready for that. I had no idea what that could mean. So I just let the hug happen, almost like a reflex. He was the kind of person who made everything feel easy, and that messed with me. But later I realized it wasn’t that. It was just him. Being him. Opening a door I took way too long to realize I could walk through.

And now… all of that felt contaminated.

The beer was warm. The air stank of grease and old tobacco. But there, in that forgotten corner of the world, I could finally breathe a little.

I wondered if he was thinking about me. If he felt anything when James left his life. If it hurt.

Or if he just moved on. Like he always seems to.

I picked up my phone. Lit up the screen. No messages.

I thought about opening Instagram. I couldn’t do it.

I closed my eyes.

Breathed slowly.

I wasn’t going to reach out to him yet. Not with my mind this messed up. Not with this anger still burning.

But deep down, deep down...

a part of me still wanted to hear his voice say my name. This time, while I was awake.

— 

My phone vibrated gently. A muffled sound against the old wooden table. I was about to ignore it—part of me didn’t want contact with anyone—but the screen lit up before I could decide.

Will.

The name appeared plain, as if it wasn’t carrying anything heavy.

I opened the message.

Will: “You disappeared.”

That was it.

No accusation. No “are you okay?” No emoji.

But the kind of message that hits harder than any long monologue.

I stared at those words for a while. And then, another notification popped up.

Will: “If you’re gonna sit at the bottom of a well, at least let someone throw down a rope.”

I smiled. A short, sad smile. The kind that doesn’t reach your eyes.

Will always knew when to show up. Always knew when to speak, and when to just... remind me he was there.

I took a deep breath and typed with slow fingers.

Kit: “Just... thinking. I needed to get away.”

The reply came almost immediately.

Will: “I figured it might be because of James.”

I froze. The air got heavy. I could almost feel him sitting across from me, raising an eyebrow like he does when he already knows the answer but wants you to say it anyway.

Kit: “We ran into each other.”

Pause. The typing bubble popped up and disappeared three times before the message finally came.

Will: “And?”

And?

What could I even say?

That he told me everything? That he nearly destroyed Joe and still managed to break me in a way even Joe couldn’t?

That now, knowing everything I know... I’m more confused than ever?

But all I wrote was:

Kit: “He told me things that change everything. And nothing at the same time.”

Will took longer to reply this time.

Will: “Want me to come there?”

I paused. Looked around.

The bar was ugly. The lighting was awful. But for the first time in days, I felt far enough from the mess to think.

Will: “Actually, I’m already on the subway. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

I rolled my eyes, alone in the corner of the bar. Typed quickly:

Kit: “Will, you don’t have to.”

Will: “You didn’t have to carry all of this alone either, but here we are.”

I leaned back in the chair, ran a hand over my face. Classic him. The most annoying, loyal way possible.

I sat there staring at nothing until another message arrived:

Will: “Send me the name of the place or I’m gonna ask around at every bar in this city until I find your dumb face.”

I let out a muffled laugh. Almost a cry.

Kit: “Wrenford Crescent, Highley Park. Small bar. Red sign. Last table in the back. Smells like grease and regret. You’ll know it when you see it.”

Will: “Perfect. 11 minutes.”

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and ordered another beer, even though I didn’t want it. Just needed something to keep my hands busy. My chest felt lighter—but the kind of lightness that comes after a hurricane. When everything’s still on the ground, but at least the wind’s gone.

Eleven minutes later, he walked in.

Wearing that denim jacket, cap backwards, and an expression that said don’t even try to pretend you’re fine. He stopped at the door, found me in two seconds, and walked over without a word. Sat across from me like it was routine. Like we met there every weekend.

“You don’t really fit in a place this cheerful,” he said, eyeing the half-full glass in front of me.

“Fuck off.”

He smiled. That kind of smile that doesn’t need a reply.

We sat in silence for a while. The bar murmured around us, like a parallel world.

“That was shit,” I said, laying it all out.

Will didn’t pretend to be surprised.

I nodded.

Will didn’t answer right away. He picked up my glass, took a sip, made a face.

“This is terrible.”

“It gets worse after the second glass.”

“You’re on the second?”

“I’m trying.”

He looked at me.

The bar was quieter now. The table next to us had already left, and the clinking of bottles behind the counter mixed with the sluggish conversation of two guys in the corner. The yellowish light made everything seem a little blurry. Or maybe that was just how my head was working.

Will was spinning the glass between his fingers, the ice making a cyclical, annoying sound. But somehow comforting.

“Do you remember when we hid in the bathroom of that restaurant in Paris?” he asked suddenly, with a crooked smile. “Because you were freaking out over a photo he posted on his second Instagram — with some guy — and you were staring at the screen like… like he’d killed someone.”

“And you made me take five deep breaths before you gave my phone back,” I added, unable to hold back a short laugh.

“Yeah, because you looked like you were about to throw it in the toilet.”

We went quiet again. But now it was a lighter silence. Less suffocating.

“Have you ever thought about what it would’ve been like if things had gone differently?” I asked, not really looking at him. “Like, if I’d managed to keep everything in place. Separate what was acting and what was real. If I hadn’t mixed it all up.”

Will took a sip before answering. “But you mixed it up because it was real.”

I shook my head, frustrated. “And he walked away like nothing had happened. Started dating someone else. Pretended I didn’t exist.”

“Did he pretend? Or did he just do what you tried to do too?”

The question lingered in the air. I felt it spread through me. Unsettling.

“I don’t know what he feels,” I said finally. “I only know what I felt. And it was a lot. It was everything. I couldn’t fake it.”

Will nodded, calm. “Maybe he couldn’t either.”

I stared into my glass, as if the answer might be there. The truth is, I didn’t know where the answers were anymore.

“And now?” he asked, gently.

I took a deep breath, not sure. Because it wasn’t an easy question. Because maybe I’d never stopped feeling anything at all.

Will pushed his empty glass away and placed a hand on my shoulder, giving me that light nudge that says let’s go, before we become part of the floor here.

I nodded, pulled my phone from my pocket to call a car. The screen lit up. And that’s when it happened.

There it was. An Instagram notification. Not from him — from a fan account. One of the big ones that follows everything. The kind that posts in real time, analyzes every gesture, every silence.

“Joe Locke updated his stories 12 minutes ago.”

My finger tapped the notification before I could think. The beer in my stomach turned to lead.

A simple photo. Joe in the mirror. Sunglasses. The white hallway light. Tight t-shirt, sweatshirt tossed over his shoulders.

I stopped everything I was doing.

Will was saying something about grabbing food, but his voice faded to the background. That image was the only thing that existed now.

No caption. No context. But I knew every inch of that reflection.

And the detail that killed me: on his left wrist, the thin silver bracelet.

The one I gave him.

The same one he stopped wearing right after everything.

And suddenly, I was back there again.

I remember the heat that night. The stuffy room, the lingering smell of his shampoo in the air, the sheets all wrinkled from us rolling around after the interview that had turned into a joke. The lamp made everything look kind of golden, and the sound of traffic outside felt far away. We laughed. And then we laughed more.

Joe was lying on the bed, in a thin blue t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His legs stretched out, one foot bouncing in the air while he said something about dinner—or about someone mistaking him for another actor in the elevator, I don’t know. I couldn’t pay attention. Not with him like that, hair still damp, cheeks flushed, neck exposed.

I pulled the little box from my pocket and sat next to him. My throat dry.

“I brought you this.”

He took the box and opened it carefully. When he saw the bracelet, his expression softened. He touched the metal with his fingers like it was delicate. His eyes were curious.

He stayed quiet for a few seconds.

The bracelet was simple. Thin, tarnished silver. On the inside, engraved:

“Come back.”

He read it slowly. Then looked at me.

“Come back?”

“Yeah. Like… if you get lost. Come back. To yourself. To what matters. To us, maybe.”

Joe smiled, but didn’t say anything. He understood. Of course he did.

He held out his wrist.

I leaned in slowly. Closed the clasp with steady fingers, trying not to shake. But he was already looking at me differently. Like he knew. Like he’d been waiting. When I finished, his hand caught mine—gentle, but firm.

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice came out deeper, slower.

And that’s when he pulled. Just a little. Just enough for my mouth to find his.

The kiss was tense at first, urgent. But then it became something else. Something slower, deeper. His breath against my skin, his hands on my neck, mine finding his waist. The way he pulled me closer, like he was afraid I’d disappear halfway through.

We undressed each other slowly. No rush. No hesitation.

His skin was warm, his breaths short, his eyes half-open between kisses. Our bodies fit like they already knew the way. Like they’d been waiting for this.

When he was on top of me, hands planted on either side of my head, looking straight into my eyes—I didn’t think of anything else.

Just him.

The way he whispered my name between kisses, like a promise.

We made love right there. Not just with our bodies, but with everything that had already been there. The tenderness hidden in looks on set. The touches that always lingered too long. The nervous jokes. The messages we never sent. It was all there. In his breath. In my touch. In the way we moved together.

After, he lay beside me, head on my shoulder, playing with my finger.

“What are you going to say tomorrow?” I asked, already knowing he’d run.

“Nothing,” he whispered. “But tonight... tonight I’m here.”

And I believed him.

And he slept with the bracelet on.

My breath caught in my chest for a second.

Joe was never obvious.

But he was never subtle with me either.

Will came back from the counter with two glasses of water and found me staring at the screen.

I didn’t even say anything. Just turned my phone so he could see.

Will looked. Then raised his eyebrows.

“Okay… that’s new.”

“What?”

“The bracelet. He hasn’t worn that since you two…”

“I know.”

We sat in silence for a while. I was trying to figure out if it was a provocation, a memory, or an invitation.

Maybe all of it at once.

Will was the first to speak:

"What's up?"

"What's up with what?"

"Are you going to pretend you didn't see it again? Or are you going to do something?"

I opened the camera roll without thinking. I scrolled through the photos, ignoring the screenshots of scripts, the saved conversation screenshots for some dumb reason. I stopped on one I didn’t even remember was still there.

Me with Basil, my dog. I was wearing a leather jacket—the one with patches that make me look like a pilot from the '70s—and staring at the dog like he was the only calm thing in the world.

That day, it was instant. The dog went straight to him, wagging his tail like he already knew that scent, like he recognized him from somewhere that didn’t even exist. Joe slowly crouched down, reached out his hand, and Basil touched his nose there like he was saying, "Ah, it was you."

It was weird to see that. Basil’s not like that. He takes his time, growls at strangers, acts like he doesn’t care. But with Joe? It was like they had made a deal.

After that, he stuck to him. He’d climb onto his lap, lie next to him, nudge his head into Joe’s chest for pets. And Joe laughed, that loose laugh he did when he was genuinely happy, not just going through the motions.

Even my parents commented on it. My friends too. The set crew loves him. Like... really loves him. Not the "he's nice" kind of love, but the type of affection that makes people pay attention when he walks into a room. He made people relax.

Maybe because he’s sincere. Because he looks you in the eyes.

That was one of the few photos I truly liked.

Because he was the one who took that photo.

Basil looked suspicious, as always. But there was something in his gaze that caught me by surprise—a sweetness he no longer faked for anyone.

Above him, I put the red heart emoji.

That was it.

The red heart.

The same one from our inside joke, that BuzzFeed UK video. Us trying to guess which emoji the other used the most and both of us getting it wrong. Laughing. Joe drawing, and everyone knew before he showed which emoji it was. I could never use it again without thinking of him.

The crew always told me to keep my Instagram updated. Engagement, visibility, all that crap. I hated posting. But this time, it felt right.

I opened Instagram. Went straight to the new post tab.

Selected the photo.

Empty to those who don’t know. A scream to those who know too much.

I posted it.

Just like that. No caption.

Just the image: me, Basil, a heart... and the silent absence of the one who was missing from that photo.

— 

Will and I walked in silence through quiet streets, without any clear direction. Sometimes he would say something about a new script he was reading, and I would pretend to pay attention. But my mind wasn’t there.

My phone vibrated quietly in my pocket.

I already knew what it was before even looking.

I unlocked the screen. And there it was. The small, almost shy notification, but it made my heart stop for a second.

joelocke03 liked your photo.

My finger froze in the air. As if I didn’t know what to do with that information. As if a simple like had just changed something I didn’t even know was still hanging in the balance.

Will noticed. He stopped walking and looked at me.

“Did something happen?”

I showed him the screen.

He gave a half-smile.

I closed the app. Put the phone away again. But the feeling stayed there—throbbing, hammering. A tiny hint of something I didn’t know whether it was anger, nervousness, or just longing pretending to be courage.

“He saw,” I murmured. “He saw the heart.”

Will sighed.

“And he responded in the way he could. The way he knows how.”

The night felt colder now. Or maybe it was just me shivering.

At several events, it was like this. We’d arrive together, smile for the cameras, exchange those rehearsed jokes about our characters, make everything seem light, intimate, perfect. The crowd loved it. But as soon as we crossed the red carpet and disappeared into the dressing room, the truth would show. He’d pull away. Ask for some water. Mess with his phone as if there was a more interesting world on the screen. He wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t say anything. As if he had never said my name with a choked voice, his forehead pressed to my chest, fingers gripping my shirt as if he never wanted to let go. And the next day, he’d act like everything had evaporated along with the makeup and the hot light of the spotlights.

When we had to shoot three romantic scenes in one day. I knew where to place my hand because I had done it for real. I knew the rhythm of his breath when the kiss was slow. But between scenes, he’d pull away. Go over the script, talk to the crew, laugh with the others. And I’d stay there, caught between the memory of what had been real and the script of what was just acting.

And then there was that red carpet where he still wore the bracelet. That was after. After everything. I was standing next to him, flashes going off, reporters shouting our names together, “KitJoe!” as if we were a real couple. And for three seconds, he placed his hand on my back to reposition me. It was the quickest touch in the world. But my body reacted like it had been punched. The same hand that held mine in the dark was now pushing me to fit into the frame of the photo.

And the worst part was after.

After the scenes.

After the applause.

After the trips.

The silence.

The days without messages. Without audio. Without anything.

He never showed up with the bracelet again.

I pretended I didn’t care. That I was busy. That it didn’t hurt. But it hurt like hell. It hurt to be online at the same time as him and see him reply to someone who wasn’t me. It hurt to see him in photos with new people, laughing the same way he laughed with me.

There was one time, at a press conference, where they had us sit next to each other. And they asked about chemistry. And about friendship. And I said he was one of my favorite human beings. And he smiled. But didn’t look at me.

Pretending became routine.

And the silence between us... too.

Sometimes I wondered if he felt it too. The strangeness. The disguised longing. The guilt disguised as a joke. Or if for him, it was just an old mistake, something he learned to ignore.

But I could never ignore it.

Not when he pulled away.

Not when he disappeared.

All of this was for safety.

Not because we wanted it.

But because, from the beginning, someone—some PR person, agent, executive—made it very clear that we couldn’t be together romantically.

At least not outside the walls of hotel rooms. Or the closed trailers on set. Or the cars with tinted windows after events.

“If you want to have an intact career, keep your distance.”

That’s what they told us. Not in those words. But with the rules. Don’t like stories. Don’t tag each other. No posts with ambiguous captions. And for God’s sake, never talk by message.

Because messages leak. Accounts get hacked. Someone always finds a way to take something intimate and turn it into a circus.

It started as strategy. It became habit.

But the problem is, I could follow all the rules, do everything right, avoid the touch, the prolonged gaze, the off-timed comments—but I couldn’t lie to myself.

I did. We did.

The public interactions were just to keep up the illusion. For the fans to see, comment, make edits, and believe everything was fine. It was a script. It was a facade. We smiled, exchanged calculated glances, pretended to be close. But when the cameras turned off, the distance returned. And what was left between us...

There was nothing left.

But that tore me apart inside.

So, when he likes a photo now — one single photo, just once —

It's not random.

It's our signal.

It's the code we created without ever speaking it aloud.

We never like stories. Never respond to question boxes. Never send "I saw this and thought of you." Never. Nothing.

But a random like?

That was all we could have.

What was left.

What we managed to keep safe.

A like from him on my photo with Basil, with that little red heart floating, was a whisper cutting through the months of silence, saying:

"I saw. I remember. I feel."

And it hurt even more because no one else noticed. To everyone else, it could just be a like. An algorithm interaction. But to me?

It was him touching me with his eyes.

— 

Everyone thought it was a career move. A bold step. A new chapter.

Kit Connor makes his Broadway debut.

The headline came out just the way the agents dreamed. The photos, the dramatic pose, the image saying it was a challenging role, that I wanted to explore new artistic territories. A young British talent conquering New York.

Lies.

Or rather, half-truths.

Yes, the script was interesting. Yes, it was a real chance, one of those that change the trajectory. But the reason wasn’t glory.

It was escape.

I took the role because I needed distance. Not just geographical — emotional. Real. There was something suffocating me in London, in the restaurants, in the streets shared with avoided glances and memories shoved down my throat.

Joe.

Everything in London reminded me of Joe.

The streets, the places we frequented with the cast. The studios where they filmed things that now felt like scars. Even the air.

I needed space. I needed to prove to myself that I could do something alone. That I could breathe without tripping over memories.

So I went.

And for a while, it worked.

The rehearsals were intense. The pace, insane. The time zone, cruel. But it was exactly what I wanted. There was no time to feel. To remember. To think about unsent messages, about silences that felt like screams.

But as soon as the theater was empty…

As soon as I got to the temporary apartment and saw the phone glowing with a random notification — that was never from Joe, but almost — everything would come back.

Taking Broadway was a way of saying: "I can’t stay near you." But it was also, secretly, "Maybe, if I’m far enough, you’ll reach out to me."

I never told anyone that.

Not even Will.

And I didn’t tell Will, who said goodbye to me a while ago, that I’m heading straight to Joe’s place.

I don’t even remember calling the car. All I know is, when I realized, I was already sitting in the backseat, watching the city’s reflection blur through the window. Each red light made me breathe deeper. Every turn felt like it was pushing me closer to a place I had spent months avoiding.

My phone weighed in my pocket, but I didn’t open it. Didn’t send a message. Didn’t warn him I was coming. Didn’t give him the chance to hide behind a "not now" or "we’ll talk later."

We always postponed.

Not this time.

When I got out of the car, the street was almost empty. His building looked the same — elegant, discreet, cold. I pressed the intercom button with the tip of my finger, hesitating for half a second before holding it down.

His voice came through the speaker, muffled.

"Hello?"

"It’s me."

Silence.

For a moment, I thought he was going to pretend he didn’t hear.

But the gate unlocked.

I climbed the stairs, breath held. Each step hurt my knees, as if my body knew something was about to change there. That I wasn’t going to leave the same way I came.

He opened the door before I knocked.

He was wearing a hoodie, his hair messy, like he had just come out of a nightmare he didn’t want to remember. He didn’t smile, didn’t say anything. Just stepped back, opened the door a bit more, and let me in, like I was just another visitor he wasn’t sure he wanted to receive.

He stared at me as if he’d been waiting for this, and at the same time, as if he didn’t know what to do now that it was happening.

"Hey," he said softly.

"We need to talk," I said, without taking a deep breath, without smiling, without anything.

He nodded, stepping aside.

"Come in."

The apartment was silent, as always. Too clean. There was an empty cup on the coffee table, a blanket thrown on the couch. The TV was on mute, playing a random channel.

I stood still.

He did too.

We stared at each other for a few seconds. Those seconds that feel longer than any unresolved relationship.

"James reached out to me," I said.

He closed his eyes. Ran a hand over his face. Sat on the couch like his body couldn’t take it anymore.

"I figured."

"He told me some things."

Joe didn’t say anything. Just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands intertwined. Breathing heavily.

"He wanted to hurt you," I continued. "And still, what bothers me the most… is that you didn’t reach out. Not even after that. You let everything between us rot in silence. Like there was nothing to say. But there was."

He looked at me. His eyes were red, but there were no tears.

"I thought you didn’t want to hear anymore."

"And why didn’t you ever test that theory? Why didn’t you show up? Didn’t send a message? Damn, Joe. I was there. Always there. And you pretended you didn’t see me."

Silence.

He spoke quietly:

"I was afraid of all the consequences, of what people would say, of others’ opinions… Because everything I felt scared me. And you, you saw me. More than I let anyone see. And when you left, I thought: maybe it’s better this way. Because I’m not good at this. I just break people."

My voice cracked. But I pushed it out.

"You didn’t break me, Joe. What broke me was the silence."

He closed his eyes again.

"Sorry."

"Do you still feel something?" I asked, directly.

He looked at me. Didn’t blink. Didn’t pretend.

"I’ve always felt."

I breathed for the first time in minutes.

"Then prove it."