years later, in a city full of memory, two lives meet again. some beginnings don’t end — they linger.
inspired by djo’s end of beginning; a story about young, puppy love and the quiet heartbreak of leaving for a dream.
Warnings: i’m in pieces
“Stop it,” Joe laughed, trying to tug the picnic basket away as you leaned over him. “You’re going to eat everything before we even sit down.”
“You brought snacks,” you said, already giggling, fingers sneaking past his arm. “That’s basically on you.”
He sighed dramatically, but the smile on his face gave him away.
You both gave up and fell back onto the blanket, laughter dissolving into something softer. The fabric was warm beneath your skin, sun-soaked and smelling faintly of grass and detergent. The world around you felt suspended—leaves whispering above, sunlight drifting lazily through branches, cicadas humming like they had nowhere else to be.
Joe shifted closer. Your arms brushed, just barely, and the contact sent a quiet thrill through you. It always did. He noticed—he always noticed—and his fingers slipped into yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. When he lifted your hand and kissed it, your chest tightened with that familiar, overwhelming feeling: affection so big it almost scared you.
He looked at you like you were fragile. Like you mattered. Like you were the most beautiful and precious thing in the world.
“You still have it,” he murmured.
You followed his gaze. “The flower?”
He nodded, brushing his fingers through your hair, careful, deliberate. “I keep thinking the wind’s going to steal it.”
You smiled, but something in your chest twisted. “I won’t let it.”
The words felt heavier than they should have.
Time drifted by in gentle fragments. You talked about silly things—stories from childhood, half-joking plans about the future, dreams you both pretended weren’t serious because saying them out loud made them too real. You laughed, leaned into each other, shared sips of lemonade that tasted too sweet in the heat.
But beneath it all, Joe felt it—the truth sitting heavy in his chest. Every laugh felt borrowed. Every smile felt like it might be the last time it looked this easy. He watched you when you weren’t looking, memorizing the way your brow furrowed when you thought too hard, the way your smile softened when you caught him staring. He wondered when “right now” had become something he was afraid to lose.
Eventually, he went quiet.
“You know, I talked with my sister about that audition for a show,” he said, voice carefully steady.
You turned to him. “Yeah,” you said. “But you never told me if you actually auditioned or not.”
“I did.” He nodded, jaw tight, heart pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it.
“And?” you asked.
The silence stretched unbearably long. Joe stared at the sky, blinking against the brightness, trying to gather the courage he’d been saving all day.
“I got it.”
The words landed between you like something fragile shattering.
“Oh—”
Oh
You hadn’t meant to sound like that. The word came out thin, hollow, like it had to travel too far to reach your mouth. You smiled automatically—because that’s what you were supposed to do—but inside, your chest caved in.
He’s leaving.
The thought was immediate and brutal. You hated yourself for it. You wanted to be the kind of person who could celebrate without reservation, who didn’t feel so small and selfish in the face of someone else’s dream. But all you could picture was empty space where he used to be—empty blankets, unanswered texts, the slow quiet of being left behind.
Joe saw it instantly.
“Hey,” he said softly, sitting up and turning toward you. “You don’t have to hide it.”
You swallowed, throat burning. “I am happy for you,” you whispered. “I am proud of you.” You continued, holding his gaze. “I just don’t know how to be happy without being scared at the same time.”
His heart twisted painfully. He’d wanted this for so long—this role, this chance—but now it felt like it came with a cost he wasn’t sure he could afford. He reached for you, desperate, like if he didn’t touch you he might lose you already.
“I didn’t audition to get away from you,” he said, voice shaking. “I just… I didn’t know it would hurt like this.”
Tears blurred your vision. “I’m scared you’ll grow into something bigger,” you admitted. “And I’ll stay the same.”
Joe pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, as if he could anchor you both. His heart was racing—not with excitement, but fear. Fear of change. Fear of distance. Fear that love, no matter how real, might not be enough.
“You’re not small,” he whispered into your hair. “And you’re not staying behind. I’m the one terrified I’ll go and realize I left part of myself here with you.”
That broke you.
You cried quietly against his chest, fingers gripping his shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world. He kissed your hair, your temple, your shoulder—each kiss heavy with everything he couldn’t say.
Around you, the picnic lay forgotten. The strawberries had warmed, the lemonade diluted with melting ice. The sky was still bright, still blue, painfully unchanged.
And that was the hardest part.
Because the day was perfect. And perfection, you were both realizing, never stayed.
“Just trust me, you’ll be fine.”
Time passed.
At first, you made it work. You really did.
There were late-night phone calls where you both whispered so no one else would hear, voices soft and familiar even through static. Messages sent across time zones, full of I miss yous and this reminded me of yous. Screenshots of scripts, blurry selfies taken between rehearsals, pictures of Chicago streets when the snow fell just right.
It hurt—but it was manageable. Love still felt close enough to touch.
But months turned into a year, and the calls grew shorter. The time difference became harder to fight. You stopped knowing the names of the people he worked with; he stopped knowing the small details of your days. Conversations shifted from everything to highlights only, as if you were both carefully trimming away the parts that didn’t fit anymore.
Neither of you said it out loud. You just… drifted.
Years passed after that.
You stayed in Chicago. You built something solid there—your own life, your own success. People admired you, praised you, told you how well you were doing. You smiled when they said it, because it was true.
And still, something felt unfinished.
You watched his show religiously. Every season, every interview. You cheered when his name appeared in credits, felt pride swell in your chest when people praised his talent. He’d grown into himself—confident, magnetic, undeniable.
And every time you saw his face, your heart cracked open all over again.
You learned to carry it quietly. To love him from a distance without touching the ache too closely. To miss someone you no longer had the right to miss.
Another year passed.
Winter settled over Chicago, soft and familiar, wrapping the city in lights and frost. Joe came back for the holidays—just a break, just a visit, he told himself. He hadn’t expected the city to feel like this again. Like muscle memory. Like a version of himself he’d left behind.
He wandered through a market one afternoon, hands shoved into his coat pockets, breath fogging the air. The smell of cinnamon and coffee filled the space, laughter drifting around him. For a moment, it all felt unreal—too quiet, too intimate compared to the life he’d built elsewhere.
And then he saw you.
You stood near a vendor, light catching in your hair, your smile softer but surer than he remembered. You’d changed—grown, refined—but there you were, unmistakably you. More beautiful than ever, not because of how you looked, but because of how fully you seemed to inhabit yourself now.
Joe stopped walking.
His heart stumbled in his chest, hard and sudden, like it had been waiting for this moment without him realizing it. Memories rushed in—sunlight on a blanket, a flower in your hair, the sound of your laugh on a perfect day he never forgot.
He just stared.
You weren’t a memory anymore. You were real. Breathing. Right there.
And in that instant, surrounded by holiday lights and strangers, Joe understood something he’d never been able to name before:
No matter how far he’d gone, no matter how big his world had become, some loves didn’t fade.
