It’s strange how a melody can feel like a hand on your throat. Years pass, people change, cities blur, but that first chord still lands with surgical precision. You don’t remember details at first; you remember sensations. The weight of unsent messages. The way silence used to roar between you. The stubborn belief that love, once found, could never be outpaced by time.

You tell yourself it’s just nostalgia, a trick of the brain. But the truth is quieter, and far less kind: some endings never learned how to end. So you let the song play, even as it hurts. You let it ask its impossible question. Would you do it all again, knowing how it breaks you? And somewhere beneath the ache, beneath the regret, the most honest part of you whispers what you’re terrified to admit: yes.