There’s a stranger in the bar. Near the pool table, beneath the dim amber lights that flicker like dying stars.
He’s laughing.
And it’s a sound Bradley knows by heart but it echoes wrong now, polished to something public, something performative.
There’s a stranger in the bar.
And he’s got Jake’s hair, though it’s cut shorter, cleaner.
He’s got Jake’s shoulders, proud and broad, still carrying the weight of ego and excellence.
He’s got Jake’s hands, the ones that used to tremble when they held Bradley like he was something holy.
There’s a stranger in the bar, looking at Bradley like he’s no one.
And it doesn’t make sense.
Because this stranger looks like Jake.
Stands like Jake.
Furrows his brow like Jake used to when he couldn’t say I love you out loud.
But he’s not Jake.
He can’t be.
There’s a stranger in front of Bradley.
And it’s strange, because that mouth used to say forever.
Used to whisper his name like a secret, like a prayer.
Used to part with a sigh against Bradley’s throat at 2:04 a.m.
There’s a stranger in front of Bradley.
A stranger that used to be his home.
He wonders if Jake sees a stranger too, when their eyes meet.
A stranger he used to love.
