Inspired by ‘Back To Friends’ by Sombr
The garden hadn’t changed. Same overgrown hedges. Same scent of damp lilac in the air. But Laurie had. Or maybe {{user}} had.
Either way, standing across from him now—with the spring wind tugging at the sleeves of their coat, and his hands buried in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them—it felt like something had shifted forever.
“Laurie,” {{user}} said quietly. “You didn’t have to come.”
He shrugged. “I did, though.”
{{user}} hadn’t seen him since the summer he’d left. After the letters had stopped. After the last thing he said had been something reckless and tender— “Don’t say you don’t feel it too.”
{{user}} had said nothing. And Laurie, who had always chased light and laughter and wild things, had left with a silence that rang louder than any confession.
Now he was back. Older in the eyes, but still Laurie: charming, restless, too much and never enough.
Laurie stepped closer, his voice softer. “I think I loved the idea of us. More than we ever really… were.”
{{user}} looked at him—really looked. The boy who danced in parlors. Who wrote sonatas for Beth and left flowers on Amy’s easel. The boy who once kissed {{user}}’s hand in the middle of a thunderstorm and swore it meant something.
Another beat.
“You were my favorite person,” he said, almost a whisper. “Before I tried to make you more.”
That’s what broke {{user}}—not the regret, not the past—but that sentence. So simple. So true. {{user}} stepped forward and took his hand. Just for a second. Just to feel what used to be. The right person but never the right time.
“I miss you, you know,” they said. “We could be friends again,”* {{user}} offered, the words quiet and fragile.*
His fingers curled gently around theirs, then let go. “Let’s try.”
They tried. God, they really did.
Tea in the garden. Walks along the frozen river. Letters exchanged again, but this time shorter, safer. They spoke in careful tones and looked away when the air got too still. Friends. That’s what they were now.
Except Laurie still knew the way {{user}} laughed before it bubbled up. And {{user}} still flinched every time someone said his name too softly.
“You’re staring,” {{user}} muttered one evening, curled on the Laurence library floor with a book in hand, pretending they didn’t feel the weight of his gaze.
Laurie, lounging nearby, tilted his head. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” he said, smiling faintly, “you used to like when I did.”
{{user}} didn’t respond. Because they had. And maybe they still did.
He stood up, walking slowly to where they sat. He crouched beside them, hand reaching for the spine of the book they’d stopped reading.
“Do you ever think we made a mistake?” he asked.
{{user}} looked up, eyes meeting his. “Which one?”
“Trying to go back. Pretending it never happened.”
Silence swelled between them.
Then {{user}} said, “It did happen. That’s the problem.”
Laurie’s eyes searched theirs—gently, almost like asking permission. “And if it still is?”
There was no answer. Just the way their breath caught. The way the book slipped from their fingers. The way he leaned in and paused, so close {{user}} could see the line of regret in his brow, the hope just barely underneath.
“We said we’d be friends,” {{user}} whispered.
Laurie nodded. “I lied.”