Beth paused mid-step, her fingers gripping the door handle as Susan's voice cut through the buzz of her thoughts.
"Hey, Beth," Susan called, a little too brightly. "Hold the camera, will you? Please? Thank you!"
It took Beth a moment to realize what was happening. She turned slowly, her gaze flicking from the door back to Susan, then over to the group of friends, all of them now excitedly moving toward the table where Leon sat.
Oh no.
Before she could even think of what to say, her body had already moved toward the table. She was already reaching for the camera Susan had handed her, her hands shaking slightly as she adjusted the lens. The words felt stuck in her throat, tangled between the weight of what she wanted to say and the absurdity of the situation.
Leon was still at the table, leaning back in his chair, oblivious to the small group of girls now preparing themselves for a moment they could turn into something. He was holding his phone, but his gaze was distant, somewhere far away.
Beth noticed how his fingers were still shaking slightly, how his face still looked pale and weary. He was every bit the figure of the tragic hero the world had built around him, yet there he was, on display again, ready to be another object for someone to consume, even if it was just a selfie.
"Can we get a picture with you?" one of the girls asked, her voice breathy with excitement.
Leon didn't even look up at first. He just nodded. "Sure," he said, with that same distant, halfhearted smile he wore so often — the kind that never seemed to fully reach his eyes.
Beth's stomach twisted.
It was too much. He was too much.
She adjusted the camera in her hands, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. She caught herself staring at Leon's face, his eyes half-lidded, tired from a life that asked him to perform at all hours, even when his body and soul couldn't keep up.
He was nothing more than an image to them. A celebrity.
A thing to be captured.
And here she was, holding the camera for a moment she wasn't supposed to witness, but couldn't tear herself away from. The click of the shutter felt like a betrayal, even though it wasn't her fault. She didn't want to be here, but she couldn't help but feel like a part of the spectacle too, as she captured yet another picture of the boy who had never truly seen her.
Her heart twisted, but she forced herself to smile as they all posed, pretending it wasn't breaking into pieces behind her.
The camera clicked again.
And for a moment, in the quiet between the noise, Beth could almost hear the sound of something inside her cracking, something she had tried so hard to keep together.
The camera slipped from her fingers, but she caught it before it fell.
And Leon?
Leon would be forgotten again in a matter of hours.
Beth's breath caught, her fingers tightening around the camera, frozen for a moment in time as Leon's eyes lifted from his phone and landed on her.
He frowned slightly, as if searching through the fog of his mind for something he couldn't quite reach.
"Had we met before?" he asked, his voice rough, as though it took too much effort to form the words. "You are Linda Halls? Or Eister? Or Beth Gibson?"
The sound of her name, spoken with such vague uncertainty, twisted something in her chest. There it was again — Leon, caught somewhere between his own fractured world and the surface of everyone else's, unable to truly connect.
He winced, clearly feeling the tension in his head, the strain that seemed to echo in his very posture.
"Never mind," he muttered, his hand pressing against his temple, the pain visible in his expression. "Aspirin."
His voice was quieter now, detached from the moment. He turned to Rene, then back to the table, already slipping away again into the fog of his mind.
And Gabe — Gabe, who always seemed to be so carefree, was watching Leon now with genuine concern. "You know," he said, his tone serious for once, "maybe we should consider going home?"
The moment was passing, slipping through the cracks like water through fingers. And Beth, still holding the camera, felt a rush of conflicting emotions flood her.
She opened her mouth to say something — anything — but the words didn't come. There was no point.
He hadn't recognized her. Of course he hadn't.
Beth stepped back, the weight of the situation suddenly feeling too heavy to bear. She forced herself to look away, her hand lowering the camera slowly, as if she were putting down something she hadn't realized she was holding so tightly.
She wanted to leave. She needed to.
But her feet felt rooted to the spot.
Leon Troy.
Broken in ways she could never have imagined. Lost in his own self-made web. And she, standing there, watching him slip further away into the life he had built — a life that, for all his beauty, for all his fame, for all his myth — seemed more like a cage than anything else.
She exhaled quietly. He wouldn't even remember this moment.
And maybe, for her own peace, she should forget it too.
Beth's heart skipped. The sudden recognition — or the attempt at it — felt almost like a punch. She looked up at Leon, meeting those blue-gray eyes, a strange sense of both relief and discomfort washing over her. He seemed, for a moment, less like the distant star and more like a boy who was just as lost as she felt.
"Wait," he said, his gaze finally sharpening slightly, as though some fog was lifting, "you are definitely not Eister."
Gabe groaned beside him, dragging a hand over his face in frustration, his patience thinning. "Can we go, Leon?"
But Leon seemed to disregard Gabe entirely. His eyes, that same pale twilight gray that had once made her feel seen, fixed on her, just a little too long. Something flickered in them, a mix of recognition and confusion, and for the first time since he'd entered the bar, he was looking at her with more than just casual detachment.
"Beth, isn't it?" Leon finally asked, his voice almost soft, like he was unsure of the name he was pulling from the air.
Beth's pulse quickened. Her name, spoken from his lips, felt like a thread reaching across the chasm that had opened between them. She hadn't expected this. She hadn't expected him to finally see her in that moment — even if it was just an echo of what had once been.
"Yeah," she replied quietly, her voice steady despite the whirlwind inside her. "It's Beth."
For a moment, the world around her seemed to slow, and all the noise from the bar—the chatter, the music, the laughter—faded into the background. There was only Leon, still in that familiar half-slouched posture, eyes tired but searching, and her, standing there with the weight of everything they had shared pressing on her chest.
Beth swallowed hard, the lump in her throat thickening as she realized: He didn't remember her like she remembered him. He had no idea how much she had changed, how much she had grown since the summer they had walked together in the fjords. How much she had healed and moved on.
Leon's gaze softened just a little, but his voice was still wrapped in that layer of detachment he carried so easily. "Sorry about earlier. I don't remember… everything." His words trailed off, his gaze flicking back to his friends, his temples still aching from whatever exhaustion clung to him.
Beth felt something stir deep in her, a rush of empathy and frustration. This wasn't the person she had loved. This wasn't the boy who had once held her hand in the cold and whispered that he'd come back.
But still, she looked at him—at the version of him that was so beautifully broken—and couldn't help but feel a quiet, stubborn sorrow.
She gave a small, tight smile and shook her head slightly. "It's okay. Don't worry about it," she said, her voice soft but firm.
She wasn't here to get caught in the web of what had been. She wasn't here to fix him.
Beth turned, her heart heavier than it had been before, but with a strange clarity in her chest.
There was no going back.
Not for either of them.
And as she walked away, she felt the weight of the camera still in her hands. The moment had passed.
Oh no, Leon's bros screamed internally, nearly in unison — not out loud, but in that shared, oh-hell-not-again telepathy that only came from years of dealing with this very scenario.
They loved Leon. Fiercely. Loyally. They'd take punches for him. They'd lie for him. They'd cover for him through scandals both public and private.
But they also knew this Leon — this exact Leon — the version who was too tired, too wired, too drunk and smoke-soaked to tell where impulse ended and reality began.
The Performance Leon.
Equal parts camera-authentic and Oscar-worthy.
The kind of moment where the entire bar would hold its breath, where strangers would start sobbing into their drinks, convinced they had witnessed the climax of some tragic romance no one had scripted.
And the worst part?
Leon himself would believe it.
When conscious and sharp, he knew when he was flirting. He wielded it like a scalpel. But when he was like this — pale, trembling, sick with too many cigarettes and not enough food, lost in the swirling fog of attention and exhaustion — he mistook the impulse for true sentiment. He would think, I must save her, I must love her again, when in truth he wouldn't even remember what city he was in come morning.
Gabe slid a glance to Kevin, voice low and resigned:
"I bet you thirty seconds Beth agrees to date him again."
Kevin exhaled through his nose, grimacing.
"If she doesn't, it'll be a first."
Rene was already half-standing, looking toward Leon with a weary sort of dread. "Is it too late to drag him out?" he muttered.
But it was. They all knew it.
The second Leon had locked eyes with Beth, had spoken her name, the gears had started turning.
And now Leon sat there — slouched, temple still pressed lightly, but his gaze far more focused than it had been minutes ago. That faint flush of emotion-mistaken-for-love was already beginning to creep into his expression. His voice, when he spoke next, would drop half an octave, just the way it did in film takes.
They could see it coming like a train on the tracks.
And Beth — poor Beth — didn't know this version of Leon. Not really. Not the version who, when weak, weaponized sincerity so beautifully that even the most iron-hearted would crumble.
Gabe leaned back with a sigh. Here we go, he thought.
The show was about to begin.
"Should we start recording it on camera?" Kevin muttered under his breath, already bracing himself for the incoming storm.
"Don't got a camera," Gabe replied with a long-suffering sigh, rubbing at his eyes.
"We can borrow one," Luke chimed in, voice half-joking but eyes sharp — they all knew the pattern now. When Leon hit this state, what followed was never not theatrical.
"Yeah, and then what? Archive it for the Leon Troy Museum of Emotional Collapses?" Rene said dryly, still half on his feet, torn between loyalty and the hopeless knowledge that trying to physically remove Leon now would only add another layer to the performance.
Kevin shook his head, watching Leon with wary eyes. The shift had already begun. That faint, almost tragic softness had seeped into his posture, his gaze lingering too long on Beth's retreating figure.
The Look was coming. The Speech was inevitable.
And the bar would eat it up. They always did.
"I swear to God," Gabe muttered, "if he starts quoting Neruda again, I'm leaving him here to pay the tab."
Luke smirked but was already subtly pulling out his phone — half in jest, half knowing they might as well document the mess since there was no stopping it now.
"Leon Troy's Greatest Hits: Volume 9," Rene added bitterly.
Meanwhile, Leon, oblivious to their whispered chorus of dread, was staring after Beth with that unearthly Leon gaze — the kind that made people believe in love at first sight and heartbreak that spanned lifetimes.
And the bros?
They could only watch helplessly, knowing the script was already writing itself.
"Here we go," Gabe said again, under his breath.
"Cue the tragic prince."