He left when you were nine. One minute you were laughing in the park, sticky popsicle hands and scraped knees, the next? Gone. His family moved without warning. No goodbyes, no letters, nothing but a stupid drawing you two made stuffed in the back of your closet.

Now, years later, he strolls down your college hallway like it’s a runway—broad shoulders, clean jawline, school bag slung low, hair messy in that on-purpose way. Girls are already whispering, giggling, adjusting their skirts. Someone even trips over her own damn feet.

And then he stops. Right in front of you.

"Yo," he grins like nothing’s changed, like he didn’t disappear for so many damn years. "Miss me?"