The night air hit me before I even saw him. Cold, sharp, like a warning. The streets were quiet, unnaturally so, with only the distant hum of a streetlight flickering somewhere behind me. My steps echoed off the walls of the narrow alley, slower than they should have been, heavier.
I tried to tell myself it was just the wind. That it was nothing more than the way my mind always played tricks on me when the darkness pressed too close. But I knew better.
I froze the instant I heard it: a voice. A voice I thought I'd buried years ago, the kind that could make my stomach twist, my pulse spike, my whole body betray me.
"Elizabeth."
It wasn't loud. Not a shout or a yell. Just a single, calm word—but it carried with it everything from the past, from the nights I tried to erase, from the silence I had begged for.
My heart skipped. My breath caught. My legs refused to move.
I knew that voice.
I knew it better than I knew the air I breathed.
And when I turned slowly, unable to stop the involuntary movement, I saw him.
Time stopped.
He was there, leaning casually against the wall at the end of the alley, shadows stretching across his face, but somehow, impossibly, all of him was illuminated in that one perfect way that made him impossible to ignore.
The face I had tried to forget, the one that haunted my dreams, stared back at me. My lungs felt like they were filling with stone. My heartbeat thudded so violently in my chest I thought it would burst through my ribcage.
I remembered him—every little detail. His eyes, the shape of his jaw, the way his smile could curve just enough to make you trust him before he broke you.
I remembered the way he had walked. Not rushed, not hurried. Just the way he moved, with that silent confidence that used to make my body tense the moment he entered a room.
And I remembered his scent. Something faintly familiar, a mixture of leather, faint smoke, and the aftertaste of memories I couldn't escape.
I tried to blink, to shake my head, to convince myself that this was impossible, that he was gone for good, that the years and the distance had changed everything.
But my gut, my mind, and every cell in my body told me the truth: it was him.
The boy who had ruined my teenage years. The boy I swore I would never see again. The boy who had taken my innocence and my trust and left me with nothing but scars.
And now, standing there, he looked like he hadn't aged a day, like nothing had ever touched him.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to curl into myself and disappear.
But I couldn't.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't breathe.
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, and every step echoed in the alley like a countdown to some inevitable doom.
"Long time," he said, his voice calm, measured, carrying a familiarity that cut through me like glass.
I wanted to respond, to spit words at him, to tell him everything I had thought and felt and endured since the last time I'd seen him. But no words came. Only the echo of my own fear.
I took a shaky step back, instinctively, but my foot hit something on the ground. The sound was deafening in the quiet alley, announcing my presence, my vulnerability, my helplessness.
He smiled. That half-smile that used to charm, used to destroy, used to make me believe he cared. But now, it was sharp, predatory, the kind of smile that spoke of confidence, secrets, and control.
"You always looked like you were carrying the weight of the world," he said softly, almost teasing. "Even when you pretended not to."
The words tore through the fragile barrier I had built around myself. I remembered the nights I cried alone, the nights I tried to forget, the nights I begged the universe for silence.
"You… you shouldn't be here," I managed to whisper.
"Shouldn't?" he repeated, tilting his head as though the word itself amused him. "You think you have any say in that?"
I swallowed. My throat felt dry. My mind raced. Everything I had built since that summer, every lesson, every inch of control I had gained, felt fragile, vulnerable.
He stepped closer. I could see it now—the lines of his face, the flicker in his eyes that was always just out of reach, the same dangerous calm that had once made my chest tighten in both fear and something darker, something I'd never wanted to feel again.
"You've changed," he said. "Stronger. Sharper. Cold. I like it."
I lifted my chin. "I'm not here for your approval."
He chuckled softly, a sound that made my stomach twist in ways I hated. "No. I don't expect it. I'm just… curious. Curious about how much you survived. How much… you're willing to take."
I fought to control the trembling in my hands. My pulse raced, but my voice held steady. "You'll find out soon enough."
For a long moment, he said nothing, studying me as though peeling away every layer I had built to protect myself. The alley seemed smaller, darker, the air thick with the ghosts of our past, with everything we had lost and broken.
"You always thought you could escape me," he said finally. "Always thought you were stronger than me. I admire that."
"And I always thought you were evil," I shot back, surprising even myself. "Turns out… I was right."
His smile faltered. A flicker of something dark passed over his expression—annoyance, maybe fear, maybe curiosity. He pushed it aside, straightened, and let out a low, humorless laugh.
"Careful," he said. "The truth can hurt more than I ever could."
I tilted my head. "Good. Maybe I need it to hurt. Maybe I've been too soft for too long."
He regarded me silently. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he stepped back into the shadows at the end of the alley.
"You don't get to walk away from me," he whispered over his shoulder.
I didn't turn. I didn't run.
"You already did," I said softly, my voice trembling but resolute. "The moment you destroyed the girl I used to be."
The alley was silent again, the shadows stretching, the air pressing in, heavy with the weight of what had just passed. And yet, even as I stood there, heart still hammering, I felt it—something shifting inside me, something cold and sharp awakening.
I wasn't the girl he broke.
Not anymore.
Ghosts don't come back.
But karma does.
And tonight, I realized, it had finally arrived.