Fell In Love In Stages // a matty healy fanfic

Act 2 // Unhappy Reunion

Year 2013~

Growing up, my life was a cushion of comfort, stitched together by my father's success. I never had to work for anything—every need met, every want fulfilled. But that comfort bred complacency. While others around me chased passions, I floated aimlessly, unsure of who I was or what I wanted.

It wasn't until I left high school, leaving behind my bubble and Matty Healy, that I realized the emptiness in my life couldn't be filled with love or luxury. I needed to carve out something of my own.

College gave me that chance.
NYU challenged me in ways I hadn't expected, and for the first time, I tasted the thrill of independence. When I turned down my trust fund, the safety net vanished, and I had to fight for every inch of success.
It was hard, but the grind gave me something my privileged life never could: fulfillment.

I threw myself into my career and worked my way up to a job at a prestigious Manhattan news outlet. Slowly, the ache of what I'd left behind—what I'd left him for—dulled. The wound scabbed over, and I learned to live with the scar.

Now, years later, I glanced at my phone, rereading the message from Noah.

"Dinner tomorrow? Let me know what time works. I miss you."

Noah and I had been seeing each other for a few months. He was kind, thoughtful, and patient in a way that made me feel safe. We clicked easily, and for the first time in years, I was thinking about letting someone in again—truly in.

But there was a wall between us, one I didn't know how to tear down.

Noah didn't push. He never pried or demanded answers I wasn't ready to give. He made it clear that he was ready for something deeper, but he was waiting for me to meet him halfway.

I stared at his text, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, when a commotion across the street pulled me from my thoughts.

It was an all too familiar voice, throwing insults at the bouncer. The voice I only allowed myself to listen to, sparingly, in fear of it opening up old wounds. The voice that had once made me feel light and safe and at home, was now coarse and jagged at the edges.

It can't be.

Denial swept over me like a wave, and I struggled to process what was happening.
I froze, my chest tightening as I turned toward the sound. The voice was slurred, laced with frustration, yet unmistakably his.
Matty.

He stumbled out of the bar, flanked by a bouncer and a man I didn't recognize. My stomach twisted at the sight of him. His hair was a mess, his shirt half-untucked, and his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world rested on them.

The bouncer shoved him lightly toward the curb, and he staggered forward, catching himself against a lamppost. His head lifted, and for a split second, his eyes met mine.

Time stopped.

For a moment, I thought he might recognize me, but then his gaze drifted away, and he stumbled down the street.

As I stood there, my heart racing at the sight of him, I felt hesitant to get involved. The memories of the last time I saw him flooded my mind.
But even so, my feet instinctively start moving, as if there was an invisible force pulling me towards him. I try to fight the urge and plant my feet firmly to the ground.
I remind myself of the pain and anguish that came with seeing him on that roof. But before I know it, I'm crossing the street to catch up with him.

As I got closer, I could see that he was in a bad state. His eyes were sunken and glazed over, giving him the appearance of someone lost in a daze. The skin on his face was taut and pale, stretched thin over his prominent cheekbones. His hair was a tangled mess, as if he had run his hands through it repeatedly in frustration. Despite his disheveled appearance, there was a certain intensity in his gaze that hinted at a mind working tirelessly beneath the surface.

"Matty," I said softly, reaching out to steady him.

He flinches like I've burned him. His bloodshot eyes snap to mine, wide and frantic, the kind of gaze you'd give a ghost. Then he lets out a sharp exhale and pulls back, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he mutters, his voice low and thick with exhaustion. His breath reeks of alcohol and cigarettes.

I blink at him, confused. "What?"

He shakes his head, looking away like he can't stand to keep his eyes on me. "Not again. I can't deal with this tonight." His words are bitter, but the anger doesn't feel aimed at me—it feels inward, like he's wrestling with a ghost only he can see.

"It's me," I say, more firmly now, trying to get him to focus. "It's been a while."

He huffs out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Of course you'd say that," he mutters under his breath. His gaze flicks back to me, and the pain there is so raw, it makes my stomach twist. "Why do you look so much like her?" he asks, his voice quieter now, more defeated.

I falter, caught off guard. "Matty, it is me," I insist, but my words seem to bounce right off him.

He presses the heels of his palms against his temples, swaying slightly. "This always happens," he mumbles, more to himself than to me. "Everywhere I go, someone who looks like her. And I'm drunk enough to fall for it every time. To think... to hope..." He trails off, shaking his head again. "Christ, I'm losing it."

"You looked like you needed help," I say gently, stepping closer despite the growing knot in my chest.

He lets out a hollow laugh, leaning heavily against a nearby lamppost. "Yeah? That obvious, huh?" He glances at me, his expression a mix of bitterness and resignation. "Well, don't bother. I'm not your problem. Not hers either. Not anymore."

The way he says it—low, broken—hits me harder than I want to admit. "Stop. You're drunk, and you're going to get yourself hurt."

"Don't lecture me. Don't look at me" he says, his voice cracking. He looks me over one last time, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "I don't know who you are," he mutters, almost to himself. "But you're not her. You can't be."

The lump in my throat is unbearable now, and I can't bring myself to say anything else. I know he's too far gone to hear it anyway.

He takes another unsteady step, then another, his figure disappearing into the night.

As I turn and walk away, the memory of that summer claws at me. The image of him with her, in our spot, flickers in my mind. I want to scream at him, ask him if he even remembers, if it meant anything to him.

But there's no point. Not tonight. Not like this.

Sliding into the cab, I close my eyes and lean back against the seat. Embarrassment churns in my stomach, but it's drowned out by a deeper, heavier sadness. Matty isn't just drunk—he's drowning. And for all the good I thought I could do, maybe I'm the last person who could ever save him.

Or maybe... maybe he never wanted to be saved at all.

Just then, my phone buzzed in my hand. Noah's message stared back at me, a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.

For months, I'd been standing on the edge, ready to leap but held back by the ghosts of my past. And now, that ghost had a face again.

I sighed and typed back a quick response to Noah. "Dinner sounds great. Let's talk tomorrow."