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masonmtxo · 3 days ago

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I LOVED THIS WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK MY HEART

The space between us

Hellooo, this is just a little something I wrote this morning 🤭 so here’s a little Sunday treat

Theme: Angst/Fluff

Word count: 4.6K

London, February 2024.

It was one of those nights where the rain didn’t fall hard, but it never stopped — the kind that painted the city in reflections and left the air heavy with the scent of wet pavement, cigarette smoke, and adventure. The streets buzzed with life, the muffled pulse of music seeping out of crowded pubs and neon lights shimmering across puddles like kaleidoscopes.

Y/N hadn’t planned on going out. Her week had been long, exhausting, and the thought of navigating through a noisy bar made her want to curl up under a blanket. But her friends had insisted, just one drink, just a bit of fun. And maybe, if fate was kind, someone new to talk to.

Fate, as it turned out, had a plan.

She met him through mutual friends. Mason. Tall, relaxed, with a messy charm and the kind of eyes that made you feel like he was listening, really listening, even when you hadn’t said a word. He made a sarcastic comment about the overpriced cocktails, she laughed without meaning to and from that moment, it was like gravity had shifted.

They talked all night. About everything and nothing — childhood memories, favorite movies, worst first dates, what they’d do if they weren’t doing what they did. Hours passed unnoticed, like time itself had bent to let them be. And when it was finally time to leave, when the lights came up and the buzz of the bar started to fade, they stood outside in the misty cold with flushed cheeks and reluctant smiles.

“Can I have your number?” he asked, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat.

“Only if you promise to actually use it,” she replied.

And he did.

…

Spring in London brought a certain sweetness to the air — the kind that made people walk a little slower, breathe a little deeper. For Y/N, the city felt different now. Every street corner held a memory, every song on the radio a hidden meaning. She and Mason had been inseparable since that first night, their late-night conversations turning into morning texts, spontaneous meetups into real dates.

By May, they were officially together.

Being with Mason felt like exhaling after holding her breath for too long. He was funny, thoughtful, full of quiet charm and surprising vulnerability. He showed her parts of himself slowly, like peeling away layers of old armor. And in return, she offered her truest self — the messy, sarcastic, soft-hearted version most people didn’t get to see.

But no good love story goes untouched by conflict.

There was someone. Chris. One of Mason’s oldest friends, always hanging around, always watching. At first, he seemed harmless — polite, even. But it wasn’t long before Y/N began to feel his coldness, the subtle jabs in his humor, the way he always seemed to be hovering just close enough to overhear but never far enough to be absent.

Chris didn’t like her. And worse, he didn’t hide it.

It started with little things. A snide comment here, a backhanded compliment there. Then came the whispers. To the group. To Mason. “She’s not who she seems.” “She’s using you.” “She only wants you for the attention.”

One by one, Mason’s friends — the ones who once greeted her warmly — began to change. Their smiles faded. Their invitations stopped coming. Their eyes held caution instead of kindness.

Mason noticed, of course. At first, he defended her. “They don’t know you like I do,” he’d say. “Chris is being an idiot.”

But the voices were constant. Relentless. They chipped away at his certainty like water on stone.

And one night in November, while she sat curled on her couch waiting for his usual call, the phone finally rang.

He didn’t ask how her day was. He didn’t joke or flirt or make plans for the weekend. He just… ended it.

Cold. Distant. Final.

Through a phone call.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just… I think we want different things.”

He hung up before she could even ask why.

Y/N stared at the screen in silence. Her heart didn’t break all at once — it cracked slowly, in pieces. She didn’t cry immediately. That came later, in the dark, when the silence settled in like a weight. She had believed in them. Believed he knew her better than the people poisoning his mind.

Apparently, she was wrong.

London, March 2025

London was still grey in March — drizzly mornings, cloud-choked skies, the kind of damp that seeped into your bones. But for Y/N, it wasn’t the weather that made the city feel cold. It was the silence.

It had been four months since Mason ended things. Four months since a love that had once felt so electric had been unplugged without warning — a cold, clinical breakup over the phone, words flat and rehearsed.

No explanation. No second chance.

Just “I think we want different things.”

Since then, Y/N had buried herself in work. Mornings at her laptop, nights at the gym, weekends with people who didn’t ask about him. It wasn’t healing, not really, it was surviving. But sometimes that was enough.

Until she saw him again.

Not Mason — Ben. One of Mason’s best friends. The last time they’d seen each other, Ben had barely looked at her. The loyalty of their tight-knit group had meant she was cut off, overnight, like dead weight.

But fate has a way of bringing things back around.

They bumped into each other on a Sunday morning outside a corner café in Shoreditch. Y/N was on her second espresso of the day, hoodie pulled up, hair in a bun. She almost didn’t recognize him.

He froze. “Y/N?”

She hesitated. “Ben.”

He looked nervous. Guilt already rising in his face. “Hey… uh. Do you have a second?”

She stared at him for a long beat, then said flatly, “Not really.”

“I just want to say sorry,” he rushed out. “I know I was… cold. We all were. I believed things that weren’t true. About you.”

A pause.

“I shouldn’t have.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. Her heart thudded with a mix of anger and grief. It would’ve been easier to just walk away. But something about the honesty in his voice made her pause.

“Why now?”

“Because I finally realized Mason made a mistake,” Ben said quietly. “And we helped him make it.”

She didn’t respond. Just gave a small, sad smile.

“You want to make this right?” she asked. “Then don’t make me feel like the villain in your story again.”

And she walked away.

…

One week later, she walked into her favorite café to find Ben already there, two coffees in front of him — her usual order waiting, as if he’d known she’d come.

“Thought maybe you’d give me five minutes,” he said.

She sat. Not because she’d forgiven him, but because she wanted to understand.

They talked. He explained how Chris had poisoned the group — twisting stories, making up doubts. How they’d believed him because he was Mason’s best mate. How they’d never asked her side.

“He made you out to be manipulative,” Ben said. “And I just… I didn’t question it. I should’ve.”

By the time she left that café, she didn’t feel healed. But she did feel heard. And somehow, that mattered more.

Over the next few weeks, Ben became something unexpected — a friend. Then came Dec and Woody, showing up with sheepish smiles and overdue apologies. It wasn’t easy, but they earned back her trust, piece by piece.

By early summer, she wasn’t just surviving. She was growing. Healing. Reclaiming parts of herself she thought Mason had taken with him.

But she didn’t expect what came next.

Ben invited her on a trip. Mallorca. Sun, sea, friends. He promised it wouldn’t be awkward.

“Everyone’s going,” he said. “Except Mason.”

She hesitated. “Are you sure?”

Ben grinned. “You’ve always belonged with us. You still do.”

And just like that, a new chapter quietly began, not in romance, but in rebuilding.

In roots that refused to die.

And ruins slowly coming back to life.

Mallorca, July 2025

The heat in Mallorca was different. It wrapped around you like silk, golden and soft, humming with laughter and sea breeze. The trip was exactly what Y/N needed — no drama, no ghosts from the past, just music, sunlight, and healing.

Ben, Dec, Woody, their girlfriends, a few other friends, and her.

Y/N hadn’t expected to fit in so easily. But here, under the Mediterranean sun, she was no longer “Mason’s ex.” She was just Y/N — witty, grounded, fun, a little sarcastic when she drank too much sangria. And most of all, happy.

She and Ben were inseparable. Not in a romantic way, but in the kind of way that made people tilt their heads and smile. They shared sun loungers, playlists, inside jokes, and frozen cocktails. They danced at beach parties until sunrise and snuck off to chase photos of the sunset.

In every group picture, they were side by side — arms brushing, heads thrown back in laughter.

The internet noticed.

So did Mason.

He wasn’t in Mallorca. He had chosen a weekend getaway with Chris and his girlfriend’s crowd. But while he sat through dull dinners and meaningless small talk, his phone buzzed constantly with updates: tagged photos, stories, the easy joy on everyone’s faces.

But it was the ones with Ben and Y/N that made his stomach twist.

He watched them too many times — one video in particular, of Ben giving her a piggyback ride through the waves, both soaked and breathless with laughter. It haunted him.

Then, a week into the trip, he sent a message into their group chat.

“Didn’t realize we were inviting exes to boys’ trips now. Glad everyone’s having fun.”

Passive-aggressive. Petty. Transparent.

No one replied.

So he left the chat.

Unceremoniously. Quietly. The digital version of slamming a door.

He didn’t talk to any of them after that.

Back in London, the Mallorca group stayed close. The trip had bonded them, reshuffled their dynamics. And for the first time in nearly a year, Y/N had a solid circle — people who saw her, chose her, respected her.

Ben was different now too. He wasn’t trying to fix things out of guilt anymore. He just liked being around her. And Y/N? She liked who she was when she was with him — light, free, unafraid.

But what neither of them admitted, not even to themselves, was how much they had started to lean on each other.

Manchester, September 2025

Mason had never known silence like this.

His house in Manchester felt bigger now, not because of its size, but because of the emptiness. It echoed with things unsaid. His phone barely lit up anymore. The group chat that used to buzz with plans and inside jokes now sat quiet, sealed like a tomb.

Because he had left it.

Because he had pushed everyone away.

Chris and his cousin — his new girlfriend — had become his only constants. At first, the shift had felt good. A break from the noise, the pressure, the scrutiny. But now? Now it felt like he was trapped in someone else’s life.

He didn’t talk to Ben. Or Dec. Or Woody.

And he definitely didn’t talk to Y/N.

Until the truth crashed in.

One ordinary evening, his girlfriend slipped up. A message preview popped on her screen while they were watching a film. She snatched the phone too quickly. Mason wasn’t stupid.

Later that night, she admitted it. She’d been seeing someone else since the start.

And Chris? He had known. He’d known for months and hadn’t said a word.

The betrayal hit Mason harder than he expected. Not just because she’d lied. But because everything Chris had claimed to protect him from — manipulation, dishonesty, betrayal — had come from his own circle. The one he’d trusted above all.

And now?

He had no one.

He’d alienated his family — ignored their calls, skipped holidays. He had burned bridges with his real friends for people who saw him as leverage, not love. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore.

Three days later, at training, Ruben pulled him aside.

“You’re not here,” he said plainly.

Mason looked down at his boots.

“Go home,” Ruben said. “Sort yourself out. Talk to your people. This—whatever this is—it’s eating you alive.”

So Mason listened.

Portsmouth, end of September 2025

He started with his family. Apologies were hard. Raw. But real. And they welcomed him back with cautious arms and warm meals.

Then came the friends. Dec. Woody. Even others he hadn’t spoken to in months. They all accepted him back — slowly, but sincerely. Everyone except Ben.

Ben hadn’t responded.

It wasn’t until the night before Mason returned to Manchester that he saw him again by accident.

He was out at a pub with the boys, finally feeling like part of something again, when he heard laughter behind him. He turned.

And there they were.

Ben and Y/N.

Laughing. Leaning into each other. That familiar glow between them — effortless and easy. A gut-punch of nostalgia and regret.

Mason looked away.

But Dec waved them over, unaware or unconcerned. “Oi! Come sit with us!”

Y/N hesitated. So did Ben. But they walked over. They weren’t going to let Mason’s presence dictate where they could or couldn’t be.

Everyone chatted easily — except Mason. He didn’t speak. Just watched.

He watched the way Y/N tucked her hair behind her ear. The way Ben passed her his drink without asking. The way she laughed — a little quieter than he remembered, but just as real.

And then someone — maybe Woody — turned to Ben and said, “How’s that girl you’ve been seeing?”

Mason held his breath.

Ben blinked. “It’s going great I’d say, I’ve got a date planned for tomorrow and this one has been helping me” he said turning to his side, where Y/N was sat smiling.

Mason looked down at his glass. His grip tightened. He had made himself miserable over an illusion.

When Y/N got up to leave early apologising“early meeting, sorry boys”, Mason saw his chance.

After she left, he turned to the table. “She looked tired,” he said, quieter than usual.

Ben looked at him, surprised. “Yeah. She’s been working nonstop. Got promoted. She’s moving to Manchester next month.”

Mason’s heart stuttered. “Seriously?”

“She got a flat and everything,” Dec added. “Still fixing it up. Big job, but she’s excited.”

Mason nodded, silent.

For the first time in months, something inside him flickered.

Hope.

Fear.

Possibility.

He didn’t know if he could fix everything.

But he knew, suddenly, what he still wanted.

Manchester, late October 2025

The air had turned crisp, leaves painting the sidewalks in golds and rusts. Autumn in Manchester had become Mason’s favorite — something about the quietness of it, the stillness between seasons. But this year, it all felt heavier.

Everything had started to fall back into place.

His family. His friends. His routines.

Everything but her.

He hadn’t spoken to Y/N since that night at the pub. He hadn’t tried to — not yet. He didn’t know what to say that would make it all right. Not when his betrayal had cut so deep.

Still, she was everywhere.

In the streets he passed on his way to training. In the café across from the gym. In Ace’s favorite park — because of course she’d be nearby now.

She’d moved just a week ago.

He knew it.

And yet, he never expected to see her.

It was a Saturday afternoon. He’d taken Ace out for a walk, hoping the fresh air would clear his head. The dog tugged happily at his leash, tail wagging with joy as they strolled past the park gates.

And then he saw her.

She was standing beneath a tree, phone in hand, earphones in, completely unaware. Her hair was up in a messy bun, an oversized hoodie drowning her frame. She looked tired. Familiar. Beautiful.

His breath caught.

Y/N turned, sensing movement and their eyes met.

She froze.

And then — instinctively, heartbreakingly — she turned to walk away.

But Mason moved fast. Not running. Just enough to reach her, gently catching her wrist before she could disappear.

“Y/N, wait—”

Her shoulders tensed.

He let go immediately. “Please. Just… let me say something.”

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t walk away either.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know that doesn’t fix anything, but I mean it. I should’ve never listened to Chris. I should’ve trusted you. I let other people make me doubt something that was real.”

Silence.

“I lost myself,” he continued. “And I lost you. And it’s my fault.”

Y/N finally looked up, eyes unreadable.

“Thank you,” she said, voice cool. “For apologizing.”

She turned to go.

“Can we… at least be friends?” he asked, quietly, hopefully.

She paused. Then shook her head.

“No, Mason. I let you hurt me once. I won’t do it again.”

And she walked away.

Mason watched her disappear into the orange light of the park.

He didn’t follow.

He just stood there, the leash slack in his hand, the world suddenly still.

Manchester, November 2025

It had been exactly one year since the night he broke her heart.

Twelve months.

Three hundred sixty-five days.

Countless mistakes.

Mason sat in his car outside a florist, heart pounding like he was preparing for a match. In the passenger seat: her favorite bouquet. In the backseat: her favorite pastries and two pizzas — one margherita, one pepperoni, split the way they used to.

He was terrified.

But he couldn’t spend another year wondering what if.

He texted Ben earlier that week to ask for her address. Ben had been hesitant — reluctant, even. But in the end, he’d sent it.

“Don’t mess this up again, mate.”

Mason hadn’t replied.

He just drove.

When she opened the door, she looked stunned. Not angry. Not amused. Just… stunned.

He smiled nervously, arms full. “Hi. Can I come in? My hands are kinda full…”

She didn’t say anything, just stepped aside and let him in her safe place.

She didn’t speak much as she closed the door behind him. Just watched him move—familiar, unsure, a little taller than she remembered—as he placed the boxes on her kitchen counter and gently handed her the bouquet.

Her favorite flowers.

Mason didn’t push.

“I know this isn’t normal,” he said quietly, “but I just wanted to do something nice for you. I asked Ben for your address. Please don’t be mad at him—this was all me. I brought two pizzas… but I can go, if you want me to.”

He looked so sincere she almost forgot how much he’d hurt her. Almost.

She stared at the boxes on her counter. Then back at him.

“You can stay,” she said finally. “For a bit.”

They sat side by side on the sofa, the silence between them stretched and soft. They ate the pizza like they used to—split half and half, switching slices and stealing the crusts. The familiarity was strange. Comforting. Painful.

After they finished, she leaned back, wiping her fingers on a napkin.

“So,” she said, “how have you been?”

He hesitated. Then told the truth.

The whole truth.

About the loneliness. The isolation. The betrayal. About how wrong he had been to believe Chris, to doubt her, to walk away without a second thought.

Y/N listened. Quiet, calm, her expression unreadable.

“I was so convinced I was doing the right thing,” he whispered. “That I was protecting myself. But I was just scared. And stupid.”

She exhaled softly, her eyes lingering on his.

“I can’t say I forgive you. Not fully,” she said. “But… I see now that you were hurting, too.”

Something unspoken passed between them then. Not resolution. But understanding.

After dessert, he stood up to leave.

But as he reached the door, she spoke.

“We’re both alone here,” she said, not quite looking at him. “Maybe… we could do this more often.”

His heart jumped.

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

The following weeks fell into rhythm.

One dinner. Every Monday.

Sometimes at hers. Sometimes at his.

Always just the two of them.

They didn’t talk about the past. Not much.

They talked about work, friends, the city. TV shows and takeaway orders. They laughed, teased, watched films they’d already seen twice. He helped her hang photos in her new flat. She helped him walk Ace when it got dark too early.

They became… something.

Something slow. Gentle. Familiar.

And it was working.

Until he kissed her.

It was a regular Monday. They’d eaten too much. She’d brought wine. He’d made pasta. She wore his hoodie because she spilled tomato sauce on her own shirt. And when she laughed—really laughed—he kissed her.

Soft. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure it was allowed.

And for a second, she kissed him back. But then she pulled away. And stood.

And whispered, “You should go.”

She called Ben that night, panic rising in her throat.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “I can’t fall for him again.”

Ben sighed. “Y/N… you love him. We all see it. And he loves you. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

She didn’t reply. Not really.

She just sat in silence, staring at her phone long after the call ended.

That night, she sent Mason a message:

“Sorry for asking you to leave like that. It was a lot. I wasn’t ready.”

He replied almost instantly: “It’s okay. I’m the one who crossed a line. I’m sorry.”

And after that… nothing.

No calls.

No dinner plans.

Just two people dancing around the wreckage of something they still wanted.

The following Monday arrived.

Her turn to go to his.

She told herself she wouldn’t. That she was still figuring things out.

But at 7:15 p.m., she stood outside his door, pizza in one hand, nerves bundled in the other.

When he opened it, his surprise flickered before he masked it with a cautious smile.

Dinner was quiet.

Awkward, even.

And as the night began to slip away, she put her glass down and said the thing that had been sitting on her chest for weeks.

“We should talk.”

He nodded.

So she breathed in and said, “I love you. I don’t think I ever stopped. I tried to bury it, to convince myself it was gone. But it’s not. And that kiss… it scared me, because it brought everything back. But I spoke to Ben that night. He told me to stop running from the chance to be happy.”

She looked at him then—heart open, voice shaking.

“So… if you want to, I’d like to give us a new chance.”

Mason didn’t speak.

Not with words.

He crossed the room slowly, like she might vanish if he moved too fast. He cupped her face with both hands, eyes wide with disbelief.

And then he kissed her.

Soft, slow, steady.

Like a promise.

Manchester, Late November 2025

Love felt different this time. It wasn’t fireworks or chaos. It was warmth. Steady. Unfolding. Quiet.

After the kiss, they didn’t say much. They didn’t need to. The silence between them no longer brimmed with tension or regret — it felt like peace.

That night, she stayed.

Not because of passion, not because of nostalgia.

But because it felt right.

They fell asleep on the sofa, tangled under a blanket, Ace curled by their feet. When Mason woke up to her head resting on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, something inside him settled for the first time in a year.

He didn’t want to move.

He just wanted to stay there — in that moment, in that stillness — for as long as she’d let him.

The following weeks were careful.

No labels.

No rushing.

Just… learning each other again.

He picked her up from work once a week. She brought pastries to his flat when he had long training days. They walked Ace together every Saturday when he didn’t have a game to play, made pancakes on Sunday mornings, and still kept their Monday dinners like tradition.

Sometimes, they kissed.

Sometimes, they just held hands and watched a movie.

And neither of them pushed for more than what the other could give.

It wasn’t perfect — they had moments. Little stumbles. Ghosts of old wounds resurfacing when they least expected.

But they talked now. Really talked.

One night, after dinner, she asked him, “What made you come back? That day with the flowers?”

He hesitated, then told her.

“You looked at me in that park like I was a stranger,” he said. “And I realized… I became one. Not just to you. To myself. I didn’t want to be that man anymore.”

She looked at him then, really looked. “You’re not,” she whispered.

December arrived with frost on the windows and fairy lights in every café. Manchester felt alive with Christmas, and for once, Mason didn’t feel lonely watching couples stroll past holding hands.

Because this year, he had her again.

One cold night, they went ice skating — Dec had dragged everyone out, claiming it was “festive bonding.” Y/N clung to Mason’s arm, laughing as she wobbled like a newborn deer. He kept her steady.

“You’re so bad at this,” he teased.

“I swear the ice hates me.”

They were laughing when Ben skated past, wide-eyed. “You two look like an advert for seasonal love. Calm down.”

Mason only laughed. But later that night, as they walked home under twinkling lights and her hand slipped into his without thinking, he knew what Ben meant.

It did feel like love again.

But this time, real. Chosen.

Christmas Eve was spent with his family.

She came with him — nervous, hesitant, still a little unsure where she fit in this new version of his life. But his sister and brother hugged her like she’d never left. His mum cried. His dad pulled her into conversation like no time had passed. And his nieces claimed all her attention.

They sat by the fire that night, sipping mulled wine, her legs draped across his lap.

“Did you ever think we’d get here again?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he admitted, brushing a thumb across her knee. “But I never stopped wanting it.”

Manchester, New Year’s Eve.

They didn’t go out.

They stayed in — just the two of them and Ace, a bottle of prosecco, a blanket fort in his living room, and a terrible playlist of 2010s hits.

When the clock struck midnight, he kissed her.

Soft. Warm. Full of everything they couldn’t say.

And she kissed him back with her whole heart.

This was their second chance. Not perfct. Not easy. But theirs.

They’d built it from ashes and apology, from growth and forgiveness.

And as the new year rolled in, Mason held her tighter.