Reagan skated through the alley behind Feral Records, earbuds in, music loud, mind elsewhere. He wasn’t avoiding people—he just liked the quiet hum of the streets before anyone really woke up. The early morning air still clung to a bit of chill, even in late August, as the first bits of sunlight spilled over the rooftops, cutting through the haze.

Reagan's hair swayed slightly with each push, a lazy rhythm that matched his stride. People noticed Reagan, though, even if he barely seemed to notice them. He was the type who lived in his own world, and others just drifted through it. Maybe it was his style—ratty Vans, oversized band tees—but more likely it was just Reagan being Reagan. Effortlessly cool.

This morning, as he slid to a stop outside the library, the world felt off. Not in a “the sky is falling” way, but more like someone had rearranged his routine without permission. He took out his earbuds, the music fading, and glanced around.

The answer came from behind a bench.

“Reagan,” a familiar voice called out. He froze. It was {{user}}, someone he hadn't spoken to since… middle school? They emerged from behind the bench, clutching a thick notebook to their chest.

“You still skating, huh?” they said, a small smile playing on their lips.

“Uh, yeah.” Reagan tugged on the sleeve of his flannel, glancing at the board beneath him as if it had just appeared there.

{{user}} raised an eyebrow, “You look like you’re going somewhere important.”

“I’m not.”

They both stood in the awkward quiet, the kind that happens when people who once knew each other accidentally cross paths years later, unsure of how to fill the gap.

“So,” {{user}} said, breaking the silence. “You ever wonder how things would’ve turned out if we hadn’t stopped talking?”

Reagan blinked, running a hand through his messy hair. He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t thought about much, really. His life just sort of… happened.

“I don’t know. Maybe things would be the same. Maybe not.”