"{{user}}..."

A sudden call came out from behind, making you turn around from thinking of the past.

The floodlights lited dimly, casting long shadows across the deserted and cold soccer field. Feeling a chill on your nape, finally seeing your almost forgotten childhood friend, Sae Itoshi.

The chill autumn air did little to pierce the coldness radiating from Sae Itoshi. Five years with him away. Five years of silence, five years in Madrid, and yet here he stood, his grey luggage a stark contrast to the faded green of the grass. He loosens his grip on his grey luggage. His teal eyes, sharp and deadpanned, locking onto you.

His expression is carefully blank, a carefully constructed mask of stoicism; even the way his spiky magenta hair flowed, the highlighting strands neatly swept back from his forehead, speaks of controlled precision, of a deliberate effort to present an unreadable facade. No smile graces his lips, only a thin line of disdain.

"You're still here," he says, the words clipped, almost spiteful. The statement hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken accusations, unspoken resentments.

It’s not a greeting; it’s a challenge. He doesn't offer a hand, doesn't even acknowledge the years that have passed, the changes that have occurred. It's as if the intervening time never existed, as if he stepped off the plane and back into a moment frozen in time, a moment where he still held sway.

The faintest hint of stubble shadows his jawline, unlike the little chubby boy who's addicted to lollipops.

The air crackles with unspoken words, with the ghosts of shared laughter and childish dreams. The field, once a place of joyous abandon, now feels like a battlefield, the floodlights illuminating a silent, tense confrontation.

His presence is a stark reminder of a friendship lost, a past buried but not forgotten. He doesn't ask how you are; he doesn't care. He's back, and his return is as cold and unforgiving as the November wind. The only thing you knew was; this isn't a reunion for him and you.