𝓒𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒, 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄, ᶻᵃʸⁿ ᵐᵃˡⁱᵏ

𝐈𝐕. 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐭

????? pov.

i had been back in bradford for a week now, and it was like walking through a dream where everything was in soft focus, but the edges were just sharp enough to remind me that i wasn't asleep. the city hadn't changed much, but i felt different, like i was seeing it all with new eyes.

it's funny how success can do that to you, make everything seem smaller somehow, even the streets you used to roam as a kid. the old row houses, the corner shops, the parks—they were all the same, but i wasn't.

i'd been holed up in my bedroom at my house here, trying to write something, anything. the words were coming, sure, but it felt like they were being pulled out of me rather than flowing freely.

it was like my mind was clogged, stuck somewhere between who i used to be and who i am now. maybe i was working on an album, maybe not. i didn't know. all i knew was that i needed to get these thoughts out of my head and onto paper before they drove me mad. but something was off.

maybe it was being back in this town, or maybe it was because i didn't have a producer. the right one, anyway.

every time i came back here, it was like i was stepping into a time machine. it was hard not to think about the past, about how everything changed so quickly, how i went from being just another lad from bradford to, well, famous.

but that's the thing about fame—it's like a double-edged sword. it cuts both ways, and sometimes, it cuts deep. people here, the ones who knew me before all of this, they think i've changed. and maybe i have. maybe i've become more stubborn, more guarded. i don't know. but they don't know what it's like, the pressure, the constant noise in your head, the way it messes with you. so i don't blame them. not really.

i'd been searching for a good producer, someone who could help me bring these half-formed ideas to life, but no one seemed to fit. it wasn't that they weren't talented—they were. but there was always something missing, some spark that just wasn't there.

i couldn't tell if i was being too picky or if my standards had just changed. either way, i was stuck. and that's how i ended up at this little coffee shop in the heart of the city, the one we used to come to when we were teenagers.

the place hadn't changed at all. same worn-out booths, same scratched-up tables, and the same old barista behind the counter. she must've been working here for decades now, but she still had that warm smile, the one that made you feel like everything was going to be alright, even if it wasn't.

"my boy!" she said as i walked in, her eyes lighting up like she was genuinely happy to see me. "been a while, hasn't it?"

i nodded, offering a small smile. "yeah, it has."

she made my usual without asking—black coffee, three sugars—and handed it to me over the counter. "so, what brings you back to our little corner of the world?"

i took a sip of the coffee, letting the warmth spread through me. "just needed a break, i guess. trying to write, but it's not coming easy."

"you always were a bit of a perfectionist," she said with a chuckle. "so, what are you working on now?"

i hesitated, not sure how much to share. but there was something about the familiarity of this place, of this woman who'd seen me grow up, that made me want to open up. "honestly, i'm not even sure. maybe an album, maybe just some random thoughts. i don't know. i just... i need a good producer. someone who gets it, you know?"

she nodded thoughtfully, leaning against the counter as if she had all the time in the world. "hmm... you ever thought about working with isobella, isobella silva?"

the name hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me. suddenly, i wasn't standing in that coffee shop anymore. i was back in secondary school, a kid with too many dreams and not enough confidence. isobella silva. belle.

my belle.

we'd been close once, really close. she was one of the few people who really understood me back then, before everything got crazy. she was smart, driven, and she had this way of seeing right through all the bullshit. we'd lost touch over the years—life got in the way, i suppose—but i never forgot her. not really.

or maybe i got too stuck up and cut contact with her.

"belle?" i repeated, almost to myself.

"yeah, isobella," the barista said, smiling knowingly. "she's been making a name for herself, you know. i hear she's really good, got a unique sound. she's still around here, actually. got herself a little studio not far from here. might be worth a shot."

i nodded, trying to play it cool, but my mind was racing. was she really that good, or was i just looking for an excuse to see her again? part of me didn't care. maybe it was both.

i found myself nodding along, my mind already made up before i even had a chance to think it through.

"you got her address?" i asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"sure do," she said, scribbling it down on a napkin and sliding it across the counter to me. "tell her i sent you. and it's good to see you back here. really."

i pocketed the napkin, giving her a grateful smile. "thanks. it's good to be back."

but as i walked out of the coffee shop and into the crisp bradford air, i wasn't so sure if that was true. something about this place, about being back here, made me feel uneasy. it was like the past was catching up to me, and i wasn't sure if i was ready to face it.

before i knew it, i was in my car, the napkin with belle's address crumpled in my hand as i drove through the streets of my old neighborhood. it was strange how some things never changed. the roads were still as narrow as ever, the houses all packed in together like sardines in a can. but as familiar as it all was, there was this tension in the air, like something was about to happen, something i couldn't quite put my finger on.

i pulled up outside the address, my heart pounding in my chest. it was a fair sized house, unassuming, with a little garden out front that was just starting to show signs of spring. i sat there for a moment, staring at the front door, my mind racing with all the possibilities.

what if she wasn't home? what if she didn't want to see me? what if she had changed, or worse—what if she hadn't?

i took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. this was ridiculous. it was just belle, my old bestfriend, the girl who used to steal my chips at lunch and laugh at all my stupid jokes. the girl i hooked up with twice.

but as i got out of the car and walked up the path to her front door, i couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a casual visit. there was something else at play here, something bigger.

i reached the door and hesitated for a second, my hand hovering over the knocker. what was i doing? was i really here because i needed a producer, or was there something more? maybe i just needed closure, or maybe i was hoping for something else, something i didn't even know i wanted until now.

before i could talk myself out of it, i knocked on the door. the sound echoed in the quiet street, and i stood there, waiting, my heart in my throat. the seconds stretched on, each one longer than the last, until finally, i heard footsteps on the other side. the door began to creak open, and i held my breath, not sure what to expect, not sure if i was ready for whatever was about to happen.

𝐚𝐯𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬!

who's this proper mysterious man i guess you'll never guess

I LOVE THIS??