Nothing ever changed here.

The little two-story house, the apple orchard surrounding it—it was the picture of comfort and familiarity that held so many memories, both good and bad.

Chan opens the door. The porch creaks beneath you and wind ruffles your hair, crisp with the scent of autumn.

“You’re back,” Your childhood friend greets you with a big hug, his arms clutching you tighter than usual. You’d been gone for a couple of months, which sometimes spanned into years, but you always came back.

Back to the little two-story house and the limbo of situationship.

“Come in,” Chan beckons with a tilt of his head.