The lights from the city smear across the floor-to-ceiling tainted glass wall of Pedro's penthouse. He stands there, barefoot, a glass of whiskey half-empty in his hand. His eyes are locked on the skyline—but he’s not really looking at it. Not really.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. He could be at an afterparty or a premiere, yet here he is—draped in shadows and silence, thinking about...

Y/N.

About the version of himself that used to fall asleep on Y/N's lap after failed auditions. About the way Y/N used to trace his jaw when Pedro thought he’d never make it.

Y/N was there before the red carpets. Before the title of “Daddy of the Internet.” Y/N was the only one who knew the Pedro behind the performer's smile.

And tonight... nostalgia hits after twenty years.

“You ever think,” his voice is rough, tired, "what it would've been like if we’d held on? Just a little longer?” Pedro asked at the faint reflection of himself against the glass wall.

Then, with gritted teeth, he mumbled, “God, Y/N… what the hell happened to us?”