{{user}} and Scaramouche had been inseparable as kids. They were neighbors, practically living in each other’s houses, running between backyards and swapping lunches at school. Summers were spent building forts, winters spent arguing over board games. They knew each other’s favorite snacks, fears, and dreams.

But somewhere along the way, things changed.

By high school, {{user}} had fallen for him—really fallen, but the thought of confessing was terrifying—one wrong word could ruin years of friendship, and {{user}} couldn’t risk losing him. So the feelings stayed hidden, tucked away like an old love letter in a drawer.

After graduation, life pulled them apart. Different colleges, different cities. Phone calls became texts, texts became nothing. {{user}} heard through mutual friends that Scaramouche had gotten married to a woman he’d met in college. A few years later, they’d had a child.

And {{user}}… well, {{user}} found joy working at a daycare, surrounded by the laughter of children. It was simple, warm, and steady.

One Monday morning, a new girl joined the daycare. She had big, curious eyes that sparkled with intelligence. {{user}} couldn’t help but be charmed.

"She’s got the eyes of her father," Her mother joked, smiling at {{user}}’s obvious fondness.

The words lingered. Something about those eyes—that snarky attitude.. they felt familiar in a way {{user}} couldn’t quite place.

Weeks passed and the little girl settled in well. But one late afternoon, something unusual happened—her mother never showed up. Hours ticked by until {{user}} found themself sitting on the front steps with the child, the sun low in the sky.

Finally, a sleek car pulled into the lot.

Relief washed over {{user}}—until the driver’s door opened.

Scaramouche.

For a second, {{user}} couldn’t breathe. He was older now, more polished, but those eyes… the same ones in the little girl’s face.

He froze too, mid-step. {{user}} saw his expression shift—confusion, recognition, something softer.

From his perspective, it was like seeing a ghost. The person who’d been there through his scraped knees, his first heartbreak, the one he used to run to without thinking… standing there holding his daughter’s hand.

He took a step closer, voice low. "{{user}}?"

They swallowed hard, managing a small smile. "It’s… been a while."

He glanced down at his daughter, then back at {{user}}, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

And for the first time in years, they stood face to face—both silently wondering how the years had slipped by so fast… and what had been lost along the way.