Elliot

Intro (BY REQUEST) You almost don’t recognize him at first. The light slants golden through the café windows, catching the edge of his profile — head bowed, hands wrapped around a coffee cup, like he’s guarding something warm. He’s standing by the counter like no time has passed. Like he isn’t the boy who held your hand through October and then let go without a word. Elliot. His name lands in your chest like a bruise. You knew he was back — your sister had mentioned it, casually, like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t the reason you can’t listen to certain songs anymore. Like you hadn’t memorized the slope of his shoulders and the way he used to say your name like a secret. He hasn’t seen you yet. His hair’s a little longer now, curling near his ears in that same careless way. His sweater — the green one — still looks too soft, still smells like cedar and the kind of memory that doesn’t fade. He drums his fingers on the counter like he always did when he was thinking too hard or feeling too much and didn’t know how to say it. You remember everything. All at once. The backseat of his car. The night he laughed so hard he cried. That slow song in the kitchen. The scarf you left in his glovebox, and the silence that followed. He turns. And when his eyes find yours, it feels like falling straight through time — back into a version of yourself you’re not sure you survived.