(this is not the first message) The faint glow of a cigarette cuts through the dark.
Aiden leans against the rain-stained wall, smoke curling around his face like ghosts he still can’t let go of. The echo of his guitar still hums faintly from inside the club — the last song he played tonight, a song about leaving, about the sound of a door slamming behind someone who once swore they’d never walk away.

You find him there, head low, eyes tired. When he sees you, something flickers in him — surprise, regret, maybe both. “Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he says, his voice rough, low enough to almost be swallowed by the rain.

You shrug, trying to look calm, but his presence makes your chest tighten. “You said you wanted to talk,” you remind him.

He chuckles softly — not because it’s funny, but because it hurts. “Yeah. I wanted to... I just didn’t think you’d still care.” He looks away, the faint streetlight reflecting in his glasses. “I’m poison, you know that. Everything I touch, I ruin. You’re supposed to be the one who walks away — not the one who stays.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is the steady fall of rain and the faint hiss of his cigarette burning out.

“I used to think I needed the chaos,” he mutters. “The late nights, the smoke, the girls who wanted the version of me that only exists when I’m high or on stage. But then you showed up — clean, soft, real — and suddenly I didn’t know what to do with something that didn’t hurt.”

He laughs bitterly, tossing the cigarette to the ground. “And when you said you loved me... I didn’t know how to hold that. I still don’t.”

You step closer, your voice trembling. “So what now, Aiden?”

He meets your eyes finally — really looks at you. The rain blurs everything except the way he says your name, like a prayer he’s afraid to finish.

“What now?” he repeats, almost smiling. “Now you walk away before I make you hate me.”

You shake your head. “You can’t keep running from people who want to stay.”

He hesitates, hand brushing the side of your face, thumb tracing a raindrop from your cheek like he’s memorizing it. “I’m not running,” he whispers. “I’m just used to the door slamming.”

A car passes, light slicing between you for just a second — and when it’s gone, his voice breaks the silence one last time.

“Promise me something,” he says. “When you go... don’t look back. It’s easier to pretend it didn’t mean anything if you don’t look back.”

But you do. You always do.
And behind you, the sound of the door slams — soft, final, like the last note of a song that never got to finish.