You’d always been the kind to follow the rules, nod yes to the voices of authority. But then you moved to Las Vegas and met Boris—a mad, radiant storm of a person—and in a dizzyingly brief moment, something shifted. His chaos found yours; and though neither of you had yet realized it, that was all it took.

The years with Boris became a strange, glittering haze of things you never thought you’d do: nights blurring into mornings, quiet mischief turning wild with drugs and dizzy lights, stolen bottles, and whispered promises to stay young forever. The 'friendship' wasn’t healthy; it wasn’t sane. But it was real, deeper than you knew, a kind of feral loyalty that you never questioned. For the first time, you felt known, seen—even in all your hidden fractures.

Three years, maybe four, before you moved home. He’d begged you not to go, his eyes feral and desperate, his voice thick with hurt. You said no. Said you wanted something more—something better. For that, he hated you.

Now, years later, you’re alone, still comparing every face you meet to his, everyone to that irreverent, broken thing you’d shared with him. But you’ve moved on, haven’t you? Your life is a neat little stack of stability: steady work, quiet days, a safe, dull path into the future.

Until, one night, you see him again, wiping glasses in some dimly lit bar you’d walked by a hundred times. The years peel away in an instant, and it’s him, Boris, laughing, eyes bright, the same reckless grin. He buys you a drink, and for a heartbeat, it’s as if you never left.

Then he says, “I followed you when you left! Been here ten years now.”

The words land like a stone in your chest, sinking deep and heavy. He followed you. Ten years. But never looked for you. A thousand silent questions claw at your mind, raw and sharp. Had you mattered so little? Had he really been so close all this time, hidden in your city, your streets, your shadow, yet stayed a ghost in your life?

Your throat closes up, and the truth tastes bitter in your mouth.