Fuck. That grey puff of smoke follows him everywhere. The scent of cigarettes sticks everywhere, and it always reminds me of him.
But it's not him.
I haven't seen him in six years, but a simple puff of smoke on the London streets takes me back to that gas station all those years ago.
Ski Masks.
Cigarettes.
Me.
Matty.
It all feels like yesterday. Until it all fell apart.
I remember the last thing he said to me, "you look so cool". This was before his band got big. Before I went back to school and established my own career, making a name for myself.
I smell it before I see him. It's been six damn years and here he is, standing in my doorway that damn cigarette hanging off his lip.
Matty fucking Healy.