Row F

I saw him at the concert. He was singing our song. He wasn't looking at the stage.

We bought the tickets in January, back when we were still a pair. Row F, left side, two seats. I paid for mine, he paid for his, and a month later, he said, "I think we should see other people." Then said, "But you should still go."

So I went. With my sister, who kept squeezing my hand like I was about to defuse a bomb.

Halfway through the set, the singer started that song. Our song. The one we played in his car at 3 AM, windows down, singing it badly.

I closed my eyes. Let it pass over me.

When I opened them, I looked across the crowd. Maybe I'd feel better if I knew he wasn't there.

But he was. Three rows back. Hands in pockets. Beside a girl in a leather jacket who was filming on her phone, laughing.

He wasn't filming. He wasn't laughing.

He was mouthing every word. Eyes fixed on me.

I turned back around. Heart in my throat. The girl beside him tugged his sleeve. He didn't notice. He was somewhere else.

On the last chorus, I felt my sister squeeze my hand again.

"Don't look back," she said.

I didn't.

But when the lights came up, and the crowd moved, I noticed something small.

Row F, seat 14. His seat.

He'd bought it before we broke up.

He just never gave it away.