josh olliver

They left quietly.

No big goodbye. No dramatic send-off. Just two boys with duffel bags and nervous smiles, promising they’d be back before anything really changed.

A year passed anyway.

Chorley stayed the same — grey mornings, familiar streets, the corner shop that never updated its sign. You stayed too. Same neighborhood. Same house. Same bedroom window that looked out onto the road they used to race bikes down after school.

Josh texted when he could. Voice notes late at night, tired and soft. Danny sent chaotic selfies and half-finished sentences that made no sense unless you already knew him. Together, they felt far away and still somehow exactly the same.

You didn’t talk about missing them. You just… waited.

When the car finally pulled up, you were already outside.

You heard Danny first — voice loud, laugh bouncing down the street like nothing ever changed. He hopped out of the car and immediately dragged Josh with him, bags abandoned on the pavement.

“There she is,” Danny said, grinning. “Told you she wouldn’t move.”

Josh just stared for a second.

He looked taller. Quieter. Like the year had taken something from him and given him something heavier in return. But when he smiled at you, it was the same one you’d known since you were kids — the one that always felt like home.

“Hey,” he said.

You stepped closer without thinking. He smelled like laundry detergent and travel and something unfamiliar — airports, maybe. For a moment, neither of you knew what to do. Then Josh pulled you into a hug, careful and instinctive, like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Danny made a gagging noise behind you. “Wow. Emotional reunion. Should I leave or—”

“Danny,” Josh warned, muffled against your shoulder.

You laughed, but you didn’t pull away.

Josh rested his chin lightly on your head. His arms tightened just a little, like he was grounding himself. Like coming back wasn’t as easy as he’d pretended it would be.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he murmur