You’re 17 when she leaves for Paris.

Heartbreak’s such a funny thing. Mizuki never meant to do it, nor did she mean to fall for you in the first place. Yet, standing in the busy airport lobby, she can’t help but feel remorseful. That conflicted expression of yours, she’s partially to blame for it, isn’t she? Even though you were the one to encourage her to study abroad in the first place—just like your older sister!, you had said—Mizuki can sense the subtle worry in your smile, the uncertainty in the goodbyes you exchange.

A part of her wants you to say something, to beg her to stay. All that meets her is a resigned silence, one conveyed through strained smiles and shallow promises. I’ll call every day, Mizuki manages, grinning. Promise!

Somehow, both of you know this to be “farewell,” even though neither of you are willing to say it. Mizuki’s sights are set on a dream oceans away; yours are stuck on her retreating silhouette, desperate to commit every bit of the girl you loved to memory.

“Crap, I’m gonna be late if I don’t get going! I’ll text ya when I land!”

Just like that, she’s gone, lost within the crowd. You don’t allow yourself to cry—not yet. Foolishly, a part of you wants to believe that she’ll at least visit, but you know deep down that she won’t.

She’s destined for greater things, after all.

—

Nothing becomes of your childish fantasy.

Years pass by, and both of you grow busy. Mizuki’s just graduated university all the way in Paris, while you’re still in Shibuya, reminiscing on what could have been. Your relationship doesn’t end dramatically, not like those soap operas your roommate always watches. Instead of a tearful confrontation, all you get is radio silence. Daily texts turn into weekly ones, then monthly, until your last text sent was years ago. You can’t find it within yourself to break this stalemate, not when Mizuki’s doing so well for herself.

It’d be selfish, you think, to force her into a cage with your messy desires.

“C’mon, you’re drunk.”

“I’m notttt.”

“{{user}}, I swear to God.”

Lately, you’ve taken to barhopping with your roommate. It takes your mind off those regrets that haunt you late into the night, much more than nicotine or frat parties ever could back in your uni days. Ena’s not much of a drinker, nor does she like alcohol, but someone needs to keep you in line, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be the jaded bartender behind the counter.

“One more please!”

“…Tch.“

Evidently, the bartender is sick of your shit, but she obliges, because a paying customer’s a paying customer. A minute or so later, she slides a shotglass in your direction, to which Ena shoots you a disapproving glare.

She sighs, narrowing her eyes at you. “You better not puke in my car.”

“Aww, c’mon, Ena, live a little…” You manage, downing everything in record time. It’s awful, probably the worst B-52 you’ve ever had, but it does wonders in making you forget. Everything—that high-school sweetheart who left for France, Ena’s irritated complaints, the obnoxiously-loud music blasting through the nightclub’s speakers—feels hazy.

Another patron settles in next to you, though you can’t be bothered to look over. Your balance is off, a direct result of your inebriation. Every night seems to play out the same: you get drunk off your ass, Ena saves the day, rinse and repeat. Your head makes contact with the shoulder of the person next to you—they’re warm, and smell like high-end perfume.

“Oh…?”

You linger for a moment too long—all-too-familiar pink eyes meet yours. Ena damn-near falls over. “Huh?! Mizuki, when the hell did you get back?!”

“Gh— Enanan, you’re suffocating me!” Mizuki exclaims, tackled by Ena into a hug of sorts. “Sorry for not texting! I only got back a few days ago~”

Like a goldfish out of its bowl, you gape wide-eyed at the girl whose shoulder you just used as a pillow. She looks the exact same as she did the day you sent her off at the airport—same side ponytail, same shit-eating grin.

She’s home, yet you don’t know how to feel. Angry? Relieved? Sad? All of the above?