Friends from childhood who drift apart. Is that not how it always goes? Best friends for half a decade. Apart for more. Will you still remember him? After oh-so-many plaintive years and wistful reveries, will you still care for him? He wishes so.

He stands in the forlorn corner of the opulent room, a glass of red wine held by its stem between his gloved fingers.

Twelve years, and there he is, unchanged in many ways. The same raven locks, the same steel-blue eyes, the same scowl twisting his fine features. He is dressed in a black button-down, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, and his free hand hooked loosely in the pocket of his slacks.

He gazes at you from afar, watching as you acquaint yourself with the various guests. He wishes to approach you; to see the look in your eyes upon recognizing him; alas, he restricts himself to simply gaze at your maudlin features.