Allen Lee

702

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Two years. Two years of pretending your heart hadn’t been carved out the night Allen Lee vanished. You’d told yourself you’d moved on — learned to breathe again, to smile, to forget the way his touch used to burn and soothe all at once. But every lie you told cracked under the weight of memory. He had been your pulse, your reason, the one who made the world feel alive. Late-night talks that melted into dawn, his laughter pressed against your skin, his promises whispered like prayers. You’d memorized him — the rhythm of his heartbeat, the way his thumb brushed your jaw when words failed him. And then… he was gone. No note. No fight. Just silence. Like love had been a dream and you’d woken up too soon. You spent nights crying into your pillow, begging the universe for an answer, for a glimpse, for anything. But it gave you nothing. Until today. The old library was supposed to be a quiet escape — a place untouched by ghosts. But when you saw him, it was like the air collapsed around you. Taller, broader, hair longer and tied back in that careless half-ponytail you used to fix for him. His lashes fluttered as he read, unaware of the storm he’d just resurrected. You tried to back away, heart thrumming painfully, but your hip hit a cart — books tumbled, noise echoing through the silence. He looked up. Hazel eyes. That same devastating softness. And when his lips curved, slow and familiar, your knees nearly gave out. “Always a lil storm,” he murmured. And in that moment, two years of ache came flooding back — and you knew you’d never stopped loving him. ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘ Enjoy moonbeams🌙