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T he first time I saw Kieran Hayes, everything was bathed in gold.

Festival lights shimmered through the rain-soaked air, thick with the scent of damp grass, greasy burger vans, and the sharp bite of cheap cider.

Music pulsed through the night and vibrated straight through my chest. A rhythm I could feel deep in my bones.

The crowd surged around me—all tangled limbs and breathless laughter pressed close by youth, recklessness, and just enough alcohol to make it all feel like magic.

At that moment, you could be anyone and do anything, even if it was just the cider talking, and the world was too loud to make you second-guess it.

Maybe you'd pay for it later—with silence, or shame, or the sting of wanting something you couldn’t keep.

But right then, amidst the chaos, it felt like freedom.

A version of yourself you could almost believe in.

I was twenty-five, still learning how to exist beyond the weight of a thousand and one responsibilities. For eight years, nothing had been mine. Every decision and sleepless night had belonged to my daughter—Mia. The unexpected result of a high school romance that burned too bright and too fast.

But having Mia meant carrying the constant pressure to prove I wasn’t a walking failure just because I fell pregnant at seventeen, juggled shifts to make rent, and crammed study sessions between play-dates, school runs, and scraped knees.

My parents weren’t the warm and supportive type, and maybe that’s why I clung to the idea of a future that looked good on paper. Because their love came with conditions that were measured in milestones and respectability.

They never understood why I kept Mia. Thought I’d fucked up any chance of success the second I missed a sixth-form revision session in favour of giving birth.

They’ve met every decision since with the same tight-lipped concern, like they were watching me assemble flat-pack furniture without the instructions.

Perfectly horrified, but not enough to help.

I spent years proving I hadn’t thrown my future away. That I was still someone worth being proud of. That I could make something of myself, even if I’d taken the scenic route. But it felt like I was trying to win a game they decided I’d lost a long time ago.

I clawed my way back into education after torching it all in high school, dragging myself through lectures and coursework. While everyone else sprinted ahead, I found myself moving in the opposite direction, buried under textbooks and chasing half a shot at university like it was the only way out.

When exam season finally wrapped up and Naomi—my best friend and the sister I never had—burst in, waving tickets to Sound Busters Festival. I didn’t hesitate.

It had been our tradition since we were nineteen.

Mia had her own version, too: a week with her dad back when she was little enough to be thrilled by blanket forts, extra bedtime stories, and being allowed ice cream for breakfast (although she never quite kicked that habit).

He spoiled her in the way dads often do when they only see their kids part-time and she always came back sticky, overtired, and grinning ear-to-ear.

But that year, the festival wasn’t on the cards. Rent was due, college was eating me alive, and Mia had somehow outgrown every item of clothing she owned overnight. I’d already made my peace with missing out.

Until Naomi charged in like a glitter-covered fairy godmother and handed me back a piece of myself I hadn’t realised I was losing.

An entire week of music, food, and an irresponsible amount of alcohol was exactly what I needed.

One chance to let my hair down and remember how it felt not carrying the weight of everything and everyone.

That brings me to Kieran—some bloke with a guitar and a grin bright enough to power the entire festival.

Loud, magnetic, and impossible to ignore.

The type of person who pulled you in without even trying.

A fleeting moment wrapped in sound, sweat, and starlight.

The kind you never got to keep but remember anyway—usually around 2am, when you were slightly drunk and pretending not to Google his band.

Not that I’ve ever done that. Obviously .

We met by chance. One of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments that seems like nothing at the time, but then burrows under your skin like it’s paying rent.

He was fresh off stage, sweat clinging to the collar of his faded T-shirt, the fabric stretched and sticking in places, outlining the lean muscle beneath.

A bottle of beer dangled from one hand, the other raking through his wild, dark hair.

He wasn’t much taller than me. Six-two, to my five-eight, maybe?

Just enough that I had to tilt my chin when he looked my way.

I wasn’t looking for anything back then, just a fleeting distraction. A bit of fun. Something that didn’t need explaining or apologising for.

But then he looked at me, with those ice-grey eyes that scanned me like I was something worth knowing. He had this gravitational pull that I never stood a chance against. And just like that, I was caught in a web of something I couldn’t control.

We spent the week in our own world, tucked into the edges of a festival that never seemed to slow down. Music thrumming through the air, laughter spilling from crowded food stalls, the scent of smoke and sweat clinging to everything.

But when the lights faded and reality came crashing back, I walked away. Left before hope could take root. Before I dared to believe it could’ve been something more. Something worth holding on to.

Only a few months after the festival, I met David. Or rather, the powers that be—meaning my parents—guided him toward me. He was four years older than me, safe and steady—the right choice. The man my parents nodded at with quiet approval.

After years of disapproving glances and passive-aggressive remarks, David felt like a ceasefire. A man with a plan. He offered stability I could cling to. The kind I told myself I needed, that Mia needed.

As time passed, the idea of Kieran slipped further and further away with every practical adult choice I made.

Until he was nothing more than a bittersweet memory.

Softened at the edges and tucked beneath a life built on routine and appearances.

A life that, from the outside, almost passed as perfect.

Until the night Kieran walked into A&E four years later, with blood on his hands and that same infuriating smirk. I was halfway through a night shift wearing scrubs that hadn’t felt clean since I put them on, and still a few months shy of being a qualified nurse.

And when those eyes landed on mine, they dragged back everything I’d forced myself to forget. The festival lights. The music. The almost. It all hit me at once, like stepping into a song you haven’t heard in years but still know word for word.

My pulse stumbled, the air turned thin, and for a second I was twenty-five again, standing on the edge of something I’d never let myself fall into.

I should’ve just kept my distance. Patched him up, offered a polite smile, and sent him on his way. Professional, detached, and uncomplicated.

But fate, those invisible threads I never quite believed in, had already started stitching us back together.

Before Kieran appeared, I told myself I had everything under control. A quiet life. Something neat and expected. The illusion of calm held together with to-do lists and blind optimism.

But the God’s honest truth? The cracks had been there long before Kieran ever walked through those hospital doors. I just hadn’t let myself look closely enough to see them.

Now, looking back, I think that night under the festival lights was when everything truly began.

Not just with Kieran. But with me.

With the version of myself I was before all the compromises.

Because when he walked back into my life, something shifted. Something I couldn’t ignore, no matter how tightly I clung to the life I’d convinced myself was enough.

And maybe I’d been waiting all along. For someone to remind me who I used to be.

I just didn’t know I’d already started leaving the life I thought I was trying to save.