{{user}} was swaying slightly in her seat, a half-empty glass of whatever cocktail she ordered clutched loosely in her hand. Her cheeks were flushed, her smile wide, and her voice—just a little too loud.

And sitting beside her, slightly stiff in his button-up shirt, was him—the boy who used to live next door. The one who used to trade juice boxes with her at lunch. The one who moved away the summer before high school started and didn’t even say goodbye.

Now he was taller, sharper around the edges, quieter. But still him.

“You—you left,” {{user}} slurred, jabbing a finger in his direction, her eyes narrowed in playful offense. “You just vanished, and I cried for, like, a week.”

He chuckled, one brow raised. “I moved. With my parents.”