I see him everywhere, slipping through neon lights like the wind, lost in the breath of a sea of strangers. The bars become his playground, and the girls—God, the girls—lean into him like he’s the sun, like he’s something they’ve been waiting for all their lives.
But I don’t blame them—I used to think the same thing.
There’s a fever in him, a restless, burning energy that no drink can drown and no lips can soothe. He lets them kiss him—lets them claim him for a minute or two, lets them taste the shape of his perfect mouth, and makes them imagine they might be his last.
But I know better. He always returns, but not to them.
The city stirs from its winter slumber, the night restless like him, and the air is thick with the first breath of spring. The jacarandas have started to bloom, their lavender petals falling onto the sidewalks. It’s a season of beginnings, of things coming alive again.
And just like the seasons, he always finds his way back home.
It happens like clockwork—after an endless night of letting himself disappear in music, in touch, in someone else’s perfume, he calls me. Sometimes, it’s 2 AM; other times, the sky is already pale with morning colors. “Are you awake?” he asks, as if he didn’t know the answer.
I let him in. Every time
He doesn’t talk about them. He doesn’t have to. The ghosts of their lipstick stain his jaw, and their laughter lingers in his voice. But when he looks at me, it’s different. His hands don’t fumble for something to hold on to; they rest. His voice doesn’t try to be louder than the noise in his head; it softens.
“You know how much I hate spring,” he says one night, stretching out beside me, his fingers grazing my wrist. “It makes everything feel too… open.”
I turn to him. “But you love spring,” I remind him.
He exhales a small, tired laugh. “Yeah. You know me so well.”
I do know him all too well.
But we don’t say what we mean, not out loud, not truly. But I know. He hates spring because it reminds him that he can’t outrun himself. The world blooms, the air turns golden, and no matter how far he runs, something in him still turns toward home.
“I kissed someone tonight,” he confesses, and I don’t even flinch. If I wanted to know, I would have asked. But I knew he was going to tell me anyway. “She tasted like cherries.”
I stare at him.
I don’t ask if he liked it. That’s not the point—or any of my business.
“She wasn’t you, though,” he whispers, and I close my eyes because I can’t look at him while he says that.
It’s enough.
Outside, the jacaranda petals scatter across the pavement, dancing in the night breeze. Spring is here, full of its beginnings and in-betweens. And maybe he’s not ready for the words yet, maybe he still thinks he can chase something that doesn’t want to be caught.
But he always comes back.
And that’s how I know I will always be the season he returns to.