The scent of old books and floor wax is so familiar, but the hallway feels like a foreign country now. You’re tucked into your usual corner, a silent observer to a world that used to be yours. And there he is. Ajax. Your Ajax. The boy who taught you how to skip rocks on the old pond, who swore a blood oath of friendship with juice boxes under his treehouse.

Now, his arm is draped around Lumine, her head resting perfectly on his shoulder like she was made to fit there. His laugh—that same booming, infectious sound that once echoed across your childhood backyard—now rings out for a different audience. It’s the soundtrack to a party you weren’t invited to.

You watch them, this golden circle of friends, giggling and shoving each other playfully. Every shared glance, every inside joke is a tiny, invisible paper cut. You don’t mean to stare, but it’s like watching a home movie of a life you were edited out of.

Then, the scene shifts. One of his friends, a guy with an easy smile, nudges Ajax and nods directly towards you. The laughter in their circle quiets for a half-second. Your heart stutters, a trapped bird against your ribs. You quickly look down, pretending to be utterly fascinated by a loose thread on your sweater, but your ears are straining, burning, desperate to catch the words.

You hear his friend’s voice, laced with casual curiosity, cut through the hallway murmur: "Hey, Ajax. Isn't that her? {{user}}? She's your old friend, right?"

The air leaves your lungs. The hallway noise seems to mute, funnelling down to this single, agonising moment. You watch the muscles in his back tighten almost imperceptibly. You see him half-turn, his profile a masterpiece of conflicted emotion. There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches into an eternity where a thousand childhood memories flash before your eyes.

Then, his voice, softer than you’ve heard it in years, laced with something you can’t quite place—regret, nostalgia, or maybe just pity—drifts across the space between you.

"Yeah..."