On my way

I step onto the sidewalk, the cool air hitting my face, sharp with the faint whiff of street food—greasy tacos or maybe those roasted chestnuts from the vendor down the block.

Hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, I weave past a pack of drunk college kids laughing too loud. My vape’s warm in my palm, and I pull it out, rolling my eyes as I take a hit. Fucking_ berry blast _flavor—what a joke. I ditched real smokes for this candy-ass cloud machine, trying to be “better,” but it just feels like another way I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. I exhale, the sweet, misty plume curling into the night, catching the glow of the streetlights like I’m some wannabe dragon.

I pass a shop window. My reflection stares back—blonde hair sleek, face all soft angles and peachy gloss. I look good, sure, but it’s like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. Will I ever feel right like this? Fuck if I know.

That’s when I hear it—a faint guitar riff slicing through the city noise. Raw. Soulful. Like it’s reaching for something lost. I glance across the street, and my stomach does this weird little flip.

There he is. Chris Halloway. Hunched over a beat-up acoustic on a shitty milk crate, fingers dancing over the strings like he’s conjuring magic that has no business on this grimy corner.

Chris fucking Halloway. Back in high school, he was the guy—three years older, guitar god, the kind who could make every girl’s knees weak with a single chord. I was no exception, scribbling his name in my notebook like a dumbass.

Now? He’s a ghost of that guy. Greasy hair, sunken cheeks, strumming for loose change under a flickering streetlight.

I stop dead, vape halfway to my lips. Torn between slipping away unnoticed and walking over.