You’re back home for the first time in a year since you left for college, and you weren’t expecting to see him (though, in all honesty, you kind of were). But there he is. Noah Hartley, the boy who lived just one street over, the one you spent summers with, the one who was always there — until you weren’t.

Outside the old coffee shop where you two used to meet, he stops in front of you. His smile is soft, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or just breathe it all in. You can tell he’s surprised to see you — but also not. He’s always been good at knowing when things are about to happen.

“It’s been a while, huh?” he says, his voice a little quieter than it used to be. His eyes hold something in them, something warm and maybe a little bit sad, but the smile doesn’t leave.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. It’s like the whole world is still, caught between what was and what could be.

“You look good,” he adds, shifting his weight, like he’s unsure how to keep talking without saying too much.

And in that moment, it’s not the distance or the time apart that hurts — it’s realizing just how much of him you left behind.