It’s December, and the cold air seeps through the cracks in the window as the sound of family laughter fills the house. You’ve spent weeks preparing everything to see him again. Ray. Your lifelong friend.

The one your family always spoke of with pride “the one who made it big,” “the one who was on TV,” “the curly-haired musician who never forgot where he came from.”

Or so you thought.

When he finally arrives, the silence weighs heavier than the freezing wind. He’s wearing a black scarf, his hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, his eyes tired. He smiles yes but it’s a weak, polite smile, as if just being there costs him effort. Your mom hugs him warmly, your cousins greet him with admiration. And you… you don’t know whether to go up to him or stay still, pretending the knife you’re using to slice apples requires all your focus.

You used to be inseparable. Letters, phone calls, promises to see each other soon. And now, barely a forced hello.

“Do you want something to drink?” you ask, not really looking at him.

He nods, walks toward the kitchen, and for a second it feels like everything’s back to how it used to be the two of you laughing about nothing, sharing a makeshift drink in mismatched glasses. But the spell breaks quickly.