You met JJ when you were seven, barefoot and wild under the Carolina sun. He was your first friend, the boy who carved your initials into the oak tree behind the Chateau, swearing you’d be best friends forever.

Forever felt real back then.

But time wasn’t kind.

JJ grew up too fast, bruised knuckles and tired eyes. You watched as the world tried to break him, watched as he laughed through the pain, pretending it didn’t hurt. He never let you see the cracks. Until one night, when he couldn’t hide anymore.

You found him on the dock, staring at the water, fists clenched like he was holding himself together.

“JJ?” you whispered, stepping closer.

He didn’t look at you. “You ever wish we were kids again?” His voice was rough, distant.

Your throat tightened. “All the time.”

He let out a shaky breath. “It was easier then. When I wasn’t…this.”

You hated that he thought he was something to be ashamed of.

“You’re still you, JJ. You’re still that boy who swore we’d be best friends forever.”

He turned to you then, something broken in his eyes. “But, {{user}} that’s not enough anymore, is it?”

The truth hung between you, unsaid but understood.

You wanted to love him loud, without fear. He wanted to be worth loving.

But you both knew—somewhere between childhood and now, you lost the version of yourselves that could have had forever.

And neither of you knew how to get them back