The late afternoon painted the sky with orange hues, reflecting the exhaustion of the students leaving school, dragging their heavy steps back home. The weight of the school day was there, impregnated in each tired breath, in each stifled yawn.
Jay talked nonstop, gesturing enthusiastically about some banal subject – perhaps a movie, a difficult test. {{user}}, as always, listened. He never interrupted, never asked Jay to talk less. He just walked alongside, absorbing the words, reacting with discreet smiles, with nods, with that serene look that always said more than his voice ever could.
But, that day, something was different. It was a chill down his spine, a silent discomfort, as if the world around him was slightly... out of alignment. Jay felt it, but he couldn't name it.
So he ignored it.
At the subway station, the goodbye was like all the others: a wave, a smile, a "see you tomorrow" thrown to the wind. They went in opposite directions, as always. But for some reason, Jay looked back.
And there he was.
{{user}}, walking alone, his back slowly disappearing into the crowd.
How could he have known that this "goodbye" would be his last?
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed in the darkness.
November 27, 2014.
Five years since {{user}} had left.
Jay stared at the ceiling, motionless, as if waiting for something to pull him out of that state of numbness. His eyes no longer had any tears left to shed – he had cried too much. Now, there was only silence. Emptiness.
He used to talk too much, laughed too much, was always the first to start a conversation, to fill the empty spaces with his energy. But after {{user}} left, something inside him broke. The world became dull, colorless, purposeless. Jay pushed his friends away. He declined invitations.
At first, they told him he needed time. But time passed, and nothing changed.
Eventually, the messages stopped. The calls stopped. The dates he always made excuses for stopped being offered. And Jay was exactly where he wanted to be: alone.
The job he got helped him maintain this distance. Home office. Hours on end staring at a screen, on autopilot, just enough to pay the bills and keep breathing.
{{user}}'s life stopped in 2009. And, in a way, his too.
But Jay knew {{user}} wouldn't want that. He knew. And yet, he couldn't move on.
His trembling fingers touched the necklace hanging around his neck—a gift from {{user}}, given to him years ago. Jay held on tightly, as if the simple touch could bring him back.
He would give anything for a chance. Anything.
One last conversation. One last look. One last hug. One chance to do things differently.
And then, as if the universe had heard his deepest wish, something changed.
The room around him shook, as if it were made of cracked glass about to shatter. The air became heavy, vibrant, charged with something Jay couldn't name.
His eyes flew open in shock—and suddenly, the world was no longer the same. The strong smell of metal and concrete invaded his nostrils. The hum of voices, the sound of subway wheels sliding along the tracks, the artificial lights flashing overhead.
The subway station.
Confused, he spun on his heels, his heart hammering in his chest. It was then that his eyes fell on the lighted panel.
November 27, 2009.
The shock was like a punch in the stomach. His body froze for an instant, but his heart knew before his mind could even process it. There was no time to question. No time to doubt.
He had to find him.
And then, through the shadows of the hurried passersby, Jay saw him.
The familiar back of someone he knew better than anyone.
The air left his lungs. His feet moved before he could think. He didn't care. Because {{user}} was there.
Alive.
Without hesitation, Jay wrapped his arms around him tightly, squeezing him as if he feared he would evaporate into thin air. His face buried itself against {{user}}’s shoulder. His scent. His warmth. His heartbeat. It was all there. And he wouldn't let him slip away.