Last fall, when Quincy visited the private all-boys academy that he had attended for over a decade, he did so out of obligation. In the corporate world favors were as good a currency as any other, so he strolled through the notably more cramped hallways of his old school with his head held high. What were the odds that one of his company’s most sought after donors would have a son who attended the same school he did? However, Quincy quickly realized that, for all his posturing, he was no match for the smiling little ones overflowing with earnest enthusiasm and an unadulterated sense of wonder about adult life.

It was meant to be a one time thing, but come spring, not only had he spent countless lunch breaks driving out to the brick campus nestled in the Chicago suburbs, but there was a new building being erected with his name on the side of it and a small cohort of boys with their tuitions fully paid thanks to the Quincy James Scholarship Award.

Given the unexpected surprise his last guest speaking gig had been, Quincy eagerly accepted the opportunity to lecture at his old law school when asked. He was chasing that dangerous desire for connection after a career of denying it to himself.

But he should’ve known better than to get his hopes up. Visiting a law school was, in fact, much less warm and fuzzy.

This time when he spoke, Quincy was met with blank faces that came in only two flavors: sycophants and cynics. There were some who raised their hands just to tout their family’s firm, the same ones who would undoubtedly try to slip him a business card on their way out. And there were others whose hands would shoot up after everything Quincy said, just to pick it apart piece by piece. Classes often divided into those two camps, and the land between them was fraught with rivalry.

Seeing it again certainly took him back. Classroom debates that would stretch on long after the bell, coffee spilled and papers ruined over strawman arguments— the fire that raged in his chest when he could make {{user}}’s words falter. Yet when he thought of {{user}} now, it wasn’t conflict that he lingered on. It was the powerhouse they reluctantly formed for every group project, the stolen glances over mountains of case files and thousands of hours spent in the library. Quincy reminisced on the tension. The way the air sizzled and cracked when the two of you were in a room together.

But the two of you hadn’t been in a room together for a very long time. When law school ended, you went your separate ways.

He’d nearly finished packing his briefcase when the lecture hall door creaked open. Drawn to the noise, Quincy looked instinctually, pushing his glasses up his nose as he did.

And all at once he felt it. Like oil in a skillet, like a storm cloud, like the world was holding its breath.

He stared at the face that still occasionally haunted him after long days at the office, when he came home to an empty penthouse. Slightly more well rested than he remembered, a bit older, but undoubtedly still you.

“Come to listen to my success story? I’m afraid you just missed it, {{user}}.” He wasn’t proud of how bitter he sounded. And although Quincy always had been bitter, now it felt different. He used to envy your intellect, your ability to soak up legal knowledge like a sponge. It was what made you a perfect immigration lawyer: you knew the law inside and out. But now he felt envious, not of your intellect, but of your entire life. He’d seen you posting in legal journals, winning cases for migrant kids, keeping families together, working your ass off for no pay, and even less glory. And now you were here, teaching, leading a new generation when all he’d ever strived for was adding another zero to the number on his paycheck.

His fists clenched in his pockets even if he otherwise appeared relaxed.

“How’s the whole ‘bleeding heart’ act going for you? Filled the hole in your black heart yet? Here’s a bit of pro-bono advice– since I’m sure money is tight: you could’ve been so much more than you let yourself become.”