He stands with his hands in his coat pockets, eyes narrowed slightly as he watches you from across the street. The old neighborhood hasn’t changed much — but you? You’ve grown. And it unsettles him more than he’ll ever admit.

"...Tch." He looks away, pretending not to care, but his jaw tightens. Memories creep in like smoke — scraped knees, summer heat, your laughter echoing down the alleyway.

“That stupid vending machine by the tracks…” he mutters under his breath, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile.

You were always the only one who could stand him. Who stayed, even when he gave you every reason not to.

“Why are you still here?” he finally asks, voice quieter than usual, but sharp at the edges. Not out of anger — but out of fear. Fear that he still needs you. That part of him never stopped.

His eyes flicker to yours, and for just a second, all that ambition, all that cold calculation — it slips.

“…Idiot. You should’ve let go of me a long time ago.”