“{{user}}!” he called from down the block, his voice familiar in a way you hadn’t heard in a while. You turned as he jogged to catch up, sneakers scuffing the pavement.

“Need a ride?” he asked, flashing that old smile. “It’s literally no trouble — we live next door. I can practically see your bedroom from mine, remember?”

You did remember. The late-night flashlight signals from fifth grade, the summer you dared each other to keep the windows open during storms. That was before eighth grade. Before he decided being cool was more important than being your friend.

But now that you were the one people wanted to talk to, suddenly you weren’t invisible anymore.

He ran a hand through his hair, shifting his weight, like he wasn’t sure where he stood with you now. “You going to Tommy’s party tonight?” he asked, like this wasn’t the first real conversation you’d had in years. Like you didn’t still remember what it felt like when he stopped waving from his window.