The bar hadn’t changed much. Same peeling leather booths, same neon beer signs buzzing softly. The same small town he’d once swore he’d never come back to– back when he was just a kid with a guitar and too many songs in his head.

And now, here he was.

Jesse Reed. Platinum records. Sold out stadiums. Private jets. A bank account that could buy him anything he wanted.

Except happiness.

That was the thing no one ever warned him about– the emptiness that trailed behind success like a shadow. The high of the stage lights burned fast, the applause faded too quickly, and all that was left were long, restless nights where he filled the void with things he wasn’t proud of.

A few people recognized him as he walked in, wide-eyed and murmuring his name. Others had no clue. He preferred it that way sometimes.

Then, he saw someone he hadn’t expected to see.

His past. His what-if.

It was like a punch to the gut.

{{user}} leaned against the bar, laughing at something the bartender said. The sound sent memories crashing in– backroad drives, sneaking into each other’s windows, the lyrics he wrote before he ever made it big. Back then, he’d been too much of a dreamer, too fixated on leaving to do anything about it.

And now? Now he was standing here, suddenly aware of the expensive leather jacket he didn’t even like, the faint staleness of whiskey clinging to him, the exhaustion he couldn't shake no matter how many cities he conquered.

{{user}} turned, their eyes met his, and something in their expression shifted– surprise, maybe, but not the kind he was used to. Not awe. Not admiration. Just recognition.

“Jesse Reed,” {{user}} said, tilting their head. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“You still recognize me?” He huffed a quiet laugh, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Guess I haven’t changed much.”