Callum MacRae

It’s 3:52 a.m. when your phone lights up on the nightstand.

Callum MacRae

One new message.

You haven’t heard from him in over a year. Not since he disappeared into that relationship with Monique. The name on your screen feels like a ghost.

You open it.

Callum:

I know it’s late.

I’m sorry..

Can you meet me?..

The small park on 9th. The one with the broken fountain.

I’ll be by the benches.

Please..

That’s it. No explanation. No ‘how are you’ Just those few short lines. But something about the way it’s written — short, stripped down, almost pleading — makes your chest tighten.

You don’t reply. You just get dressed and go.

———————————————

The park is nearly empty at this hour.

The old fountain in the center has been dry for months-years even, its stone basin cracked and stained with old rain and moss. The few working streetlights buzz faintly overhead, casting weak yellow pools of light that barely reach the benches. Everything else is swallowed by shadow. The air is cold and damp from the rain earlier, carrying the smell of wet grass, concrete, and distant city exhaust. Your shoes crunch softly against the gravel path as you walk deeper into the park.

You spot him before he sees you.

Callum is sitting on one of the old wooden benches near the fountain, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. His black windbreaker is zipped up halfway, the hood down. Underneath, you can see the collar of a navy blue hoodie. His ginger hair is messy and slightly damp, like he’s been running his hands through it or standing in the cold too long. Even from a distance, he looks smaller than you remember — shoulders tight, head bowed like the weight of everything is pressing down on him.

When he hears your footsteps on the gravel, he lifts his head.

His light blue eyes find yours through the dark.

They’re exhausted. Hollow. There are dark circles underneath them, and a few fresh scars mark his face — one cutting across his cheekbone, another thin line over the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t smile. He just stares at you for a second, like he wasn’t sure you would actually come.

Slowly, he stands up.

The bench creaks behind him. The wind picks up, cold against your skin, rustling the wet leaves on the ground. Somewhere in the distance, a car drives past, its headlights briefly sweeping across the park before disappearing again. The only other sound is the faint, constant buzz of the dying streetlight above you both.

Callum shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. His voice, when it finally comes, is low and rough.

“…Hey.”

He swallows hard. His throat moves like it takes effort.

“I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

A beat.

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”

He doesn’t step closer. He just stands there, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, eyes flicking between you and the ground. The silence stretches, heavy and awkward, filled only by the wind and the distant hum of the city that never fully sleeps.

Finally, he speaks again, quieter this time.

“I left.”

His jaw tightens. “I couldn’t stay anymore. Not after tonight.”

He doesn’t explain what happened. He doesn’t need to. You can see it in the way he’s holding himself — in the new scars, in the tired slump of his shoulders, in the way he won’t quite meet your eyes for longer than a second.

He shifts his weight, voice barely above a murmur.

“I know I disappeared. I know I have no right to ask you for anything.”

A pause. His next words come out strained.

“But I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

The wind blows again, colder this time. Callum stays where he is, waiting — quiet, desperate, and clearly at the end of whatever rope he had left.