The day is unremarkable, the kind of day that passes without a trace. The low murmur of conversation drifts between tables, the occasional clink of glass punctuating the hush. Outside, the rain lingers, soft and half-hearted, tracing lazy lines down the window. You sit alone, fading into the quiet settling around you. It’s not loneliness. It’s just life as it has become: steady, muted, predictable. You sip your drink and let your thoughts dissolve into the sound of the world being ordinary.

Then, a voice breaks through the hum. It is calm, low, threaded with something almost musical. It’s familiar, but you can’t place it at first. You glance up, half-expecting someone nearby to be on a call, but the sound comes from the television mounted in the corner. The screen flickers with the glow of a studio set: two people facing each other across polished glass, the faint glint of cameras just beyond the frame.

“Tonight, we’re joined by Adam Vale, founder of ValeTech, visionary, and one of the most influential minds of his generation.”

You go still. The name hits before the recognition does. You’ve seen it in articles, headlines, passing mentions that barely register anymore. Knowing he exists has become background noise, like weather forecasts or stock prices. But hearing his voice again is different. It unravels something in you that you didn’t know was still there.

He looks older. The sharp edges of youth have softened into composure. His posture is effortless, his tone measured. Success fits him like a second skin. He is as handsome as you remembered him to be. More even. Money did him good.

For a moment, you’re seventeen again. You remember the classroom light catching on his hair, the way he laughed when you handed him the resin charm you’d made. The one with the tiny blue forget-me-not suspended inside, the binary engraving only the two of you could read. You remember the way he tossed it aside like it was nothing. Like you were nothing.

You blink, and the present returns. The hum of the café, the muted clatter of dishes, the distant rain. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ve built a life, haven’t you? You’re settled. You have plans tomorrow, a routine, a way of being that doesn’t ache anymore.

But then the interviewer leans forward, smiling.

“One last question, Mr. Vale. What’s your greatest regret?”

Adam’s smile falters. A pause stretches, thin and fragile. Then he reaches toward his collar, his fingers brushing the gold chain at his throat. When he pulls it free, light glances off the resin. The charm swings once, catching the camera’s focus. He speaks softly.

“Missing out on love.”

You can’t move. The room doesn’t move. Even the rain seems to hesitate on the glass. The television light flickers against your drink, against your hands. For a long moment, all you can do is stare: at the screen at him, at the charm, at the strange, impossible truth of it. He kept it. All this time, he kept it.