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You’ve known Chris Dixon your whole life.
Not in the yeah-i-kinda-grew-up-with-him way. In the your mums still text each other and ask you what the other is up to way. The kind of knowing that doesn’t disappear just because time passes or lives shift direction.
You stayed.
Jersey has a way of anchoring people like that. Keeping you tethered even when the world keeps moving. You didn’t miss anything here. The mornings still smell like salt and cold air. You built a stable life: med school, residency, night shifts that bled into dawn, and the quiet pride of becoming someone reliable. Someone steady.
Chris left.
Both of you had spent a good half of your lives together on this island. After Chris had gained his fame, he had left Jersey, and evidently you, too.
So when you’re sitting on your dinner table, back from a gruelling night shift from the hospital, trying (fruitlessly) to write up patient notes, it shouldn't surprise you the way it did when he called you.
“Christopher” flashes on your screen. His contact photo is still that awful one from when he was seventeen, braces and all. Your heart stutters anyway. You answer before deliberation can intervene.
“..Hello?” You cringe at yourself, not sure what to say after this unexpected call.
There’s a pause, then a bit of a rustle. You’re not sure if this is a misdial or if he’s hung up.
“Hey,” Chris says finally. His voice is lower than you remember, steadier. “Sorry, did I wake you? I wasn’t sure if you’d be awake.”
You laugh at that, before sobering quickly at the thought of how you had left things. You don't mean for it to sound bitter, but it comes out like that.
“Wow, do I really sound that awful? That’s how you greet me after, what? 10 years?
He exhales, something between a chuckle and a sigh. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just-” A pause. “You always used to sound like this when you were tired. Thought maybe nothing’s changed.”
Your chest flips at the evidence of his memory. Of him, still knowing you so intimately.
“No, you didn't wake me, Chris. I’m just up doing patient notes. Did…did you want to tell me something, or did you just call me for fun?”
There’s a quiet hum on the line. You can picture him, adjusting his grip on the phone, grounding himself. The image warms you inexplicably.
“No. No, I didn't. I’m back in Jersey.” He says like he has to get it out quickly before he can change his mind.
You blink, caught off guard by the sudden intensity of it.
“Oh,” you say. “Okay. Well. That’s exciting. What ever will London do without you?”
He lets out a short laugh at that, breathy, like he’s relieved you didn’t make it heavier than it already feels.
“I think London will survive,” he says. “Barely. Might be touch and go.”
You smile to yourself, tracing a faint ring in the condensation on your glass. “Tragic.”
“Devastating, really,” he agrees. Then his tone shifts, less playful, more honest. “I needed the break. Things were getting intense.”
You hum in understanding, a silent, gentle push for him to continue.
“Yeah,” he says. “Or at least reminding you who you were before everything else got added on.”
“How long are you back for?” you ask, casual on the surface, careful underneath.
“A week,” he replies. “Maybe a little longer. Depends on how it feels.”
Your chest tightens, just a bit. “And how does it feel so far?”
“Like I should’ve come back sooner,” he admits quietly. “Like I left something unfinished.”
Something in you shifts, unsettled and familiar all at once. you think of all the things you never said.You find yourself thinking; I wish I could’ve said what I meant when it was right there. You stop breathing for a second and will yourself not to choke.
“Oh,” you say again, because it seems to be the only word that fits.
“I didn’t mean that dramatically,” he adds quickly. “I just- I kept thinking about you. And I figured if I didn’t call now, I never would.”
You exhale slowly. “You always did overthink things.”
“And you always called me out on it,” he says, smiling; you can hear it in his voice.
“So,” he says, tentative but hopeful, “would it be weird if I asked you to come to the beach with me while I’m here?”
You glance at your half-finished notes, at the blinking cursor waiting patiently for you to return to work.
“I’ve got tomorrow morning off,” you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds.
There’s a shaky half-second of silence.
“Really?” he asks.
“Really.”
He exhales, relief clear. “Okay. Then yeah, I’d really like that.”
When you hang up, you look back at your patient notes. Suddenly, your mental block has dissipated, and everything’s making sense.
And it feels like you’re 17 all over again, awaiting his presence like it’s what you were put on this Earth for.
The next morning comes too quickly, though you’ve been awake long enough to anticipate it. You’ve never considered yourself indecisive, but the clothes strewn across your bedroom say different. It may or may not scare you how much effort you put into a simple beach date with an old friend.
The sea stretches wide, calm and steady, the sound of waves washing over the shore almost meditative. You spot him immediately. Chris, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, staring out at the horizon as if he’s memorising every detail.
“Hey,” he says as soon as he sees you, turning quickly with that half-smile you remember so vividly.
“Hey,” you reply, heart beating faster than it has in years.
He gestures to a rock formation nearby. “Sit?”
You follow him to the rock formation, the air around you both suddenly thick with anticipation. As you settle down onto the outcropping of grey stone, Chris takes a seat next to you, closer than you expected. You can feel the heat radiating. He’s different now, maybe broader, more grounded—but the way he looks at you is achingly familiar. His gaze stays locked on the horizon as he speaks, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore acting as a steady rhythm.
The wind whips your hair across your face, salty and sharp, but you don’t mind. Chris leans back slightly on the rock, eyes still on you, and you realise how much you’ve missed the way he looks at you.
Finally, he speaks, his voice steady but tinged with something that betrays just how much he's kept pent up.
"I didn't plan any of this, you know."
You face him, hands fidgeting in your lap. He takes it as a sign to continue.
Chris hesitates, then turns to face you fully. His green eyes, still so familiar, search your face like he's trying to memorise every detail all over again.
"I didn't plan any of this," he repeats, quieter now. "Coming back, calling you... None of it. But the second I stepped off the ferry, all I could think was—" He swallows hard, his voice dropping.
"—how the hell did I ever leave you behind?"
The wind catches his words, carrying them like a confession. His hand twitches toward yours on the rock between you, stopping just short of touching.
“I kept thinking about you,” he adds, voice low, almost hesitant. “So many years have passed by in London, but not one day have you managed to evade my thoughts.”
Your chest tightens. “You didn’t leave me,” you say softly. “I stayed. I’ve been here. Living. Waiting—maybe for this.”
He swallows, looking down at his coffee cup, then back up at you. “I was scared. Scared I couldn’t be… enough. For you, for everything.”
“You?” you ask, in disbelief. “Chris, you’ve always been more than enough.”
“I didn’t see it that way,” he admits. "I want to know. I want to try. I've spent all this time missing you. I’m not wasting any more time."
You study him, the same boy you knew, but grown into someone else entirely. A man who is steady, sincere, vulnerable, everything you had tried to become.
“Start over, huh?” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he says, leaning back slightly, but keeping his eyes on you. “I’m done running.”
Your fingers brush across as you reach towards him. A small contact, but it sparks something alive that has been dormant for years.
“Good,” you whisper. “Because I’ve been staying.”
He smiles, quiet, genuine, and the distance that’s stretched between you both for so long finally feels smaller.