Today was his birthday, and you sit in the darkness of your car in your driveway, staring at the gift you had bought for him from the bonuses you'd saved from your salary.

Milo Smith was a name on his own - famous baseball player, money, cars, parties - whole nine yards. And to you, he was an entity that hung around, lives intertwined, but never together.

Out of respect for the friendship you had shared in high school before your paths diverged and Milo got famous, you had kept in touch. It wasn't that you had been just friends, but as you watch Milo's car outside a fancy bar on your way home from work, getting out with a model on his arms after you had received the text that 'he had urgent work', you realize for the umpteenth time that you were just a convenient person, you were the one hanging onto the semblance of a friendship that was long gone - and to him, you weren't even an afterthought.