Ales POV
I waved to her one final time, my hand lingering in the air long after it should have fallen—hesitant to say goodbye.
I had been taken aback by how her eyes stayed swollen for days when I first told her about my departure. I never expected it to affect her this deeply. Back then, we barely spoke, preferring distance over connection. Yet, beneath shared routine, that distance had quietly dissolved.
Now she— My roommate clung to me like a child refusing to let go of something precious. Her sob came unrestrained—loud and raw—drawing glances from passing strangers. I held her into a tight embrace, gently patting her back in a futile attempt to calm her.
A soft chime cut through the air, followed by the final call for my flight. My grip loosened—reluctantly —and I stepped back and waved through. By the time I reached the gate, only a few remained. The scanner beeped as my boarding pass was checked, and with a quiet nod — I entered into the narrow passage.
The passenger shot me irritated glances as I made my way to the only empty seat. I lowered my gaze, heat rising to my face— embarrassed, aware that I was the reason for the delay, the disruption in there careful ordered space.
I slit my suitcase into the overhead compartment with quite hands, and settled next to a stranger whose expressions already suggested: this flight was ruined, at least for them.
As the flight began to move, something in me tightened. The takeoff press me gently into my seat. And my chest felt a strange unrest— heavy, lingering, like something unfinished. I had never been someone who let go easily. I had known, even before this moment that one of us would eventually have to step back.
And this time, it happened to be me.
I missed this place already, the friend I made here— the memorable moments.
But at the same time, I am excited to go back.
Last night, I left a msg for Dylan, asking him to pick me up once we land. I wasn't expecting a reply. He was probably staring at it, debating weather basic human decency was worth getting him out of bed for. With Dylan, it usually wasn't.
It wasn't that he didn't care. He just... care for a horizontal position.
And still, somehow I knew he would come.
Which made absolutely no sense, considering how it took him three business days to reply to "you alive?" But that was the thing about Dylan— Every now and then, when it actually mattered, he'd showed up like he hadn't taken convincing himself not to.
I could already picture him there.. probably late, definitely underdressed, scanning the crowd with a familiar restless energy, pretending he wasn't waiting for me... and failing miserably.
I missed them so much —and I knew, without a doubt it's the same for them. It had been far too long since I saw them in person, apart from the videocall me shared every weekend.
That feeling—the need to see them again, to be back where I belonged—was what finally made me choose to return.
Because of connecting flight, I had to board another plane— and I will admit, I clung to a small hope that I wouldn't be seated with the same old fellow.
The entire previous flight had been a quite ordeal. It had been an experience—and not the kind you look back on fondly, more like the kind you survive and later use as a warning to others.
It started with the staring, not the accidental kind but the deliberate, unwavering kind, like he had been personally assigned to monitor my existence. Every time I shifted—even slightly—I could feel it, sharp and unblinking.
So, naturally I made the mistake of looking back, and he didn't even pretend to look away, just held eye contact like we were in some silent competition I had never signed up for.
Then came the sighing—loud, dramatic, frequent—as if my breathing alone was inconveniencing him. I adjusted my seat, he sighed. I reached for my bag, he sighed. At one point, I'm fairly sure I blinked too loudly, because yes—he sighed again.
I froze.
Because now, it seem personal.
And just when I thought that was the peak of human irritation, the chewing started—loud, open-mouthed, aggressively crunchy. I didn't need to look to know he wanted me to hear it. He wasn't eating it, he was performing it.
At that point, I stopped wondering if he had a problem with me and started wondering if this was simply how he existed in society. Either way, I decided very quickly that I wanted nothing to do with him—ever again.
Yet, this time, my seat was not close to the window. I told myself I didn't mind where ever I sat, unless it's him.
For a brief moment, it felt luck might actually be on my side.
And then..
A man in a familiar red cap stepped into the aisle, moving slowly… deliberately… straight toward my row. I turned away immediately, angling my body toward the seat as if I hadn't noticed him.
And just like that, whatever small, unreasonable hope I had been entertaining quietly gave up on me. The seat dipped, the familiar crunch started again, and I just sat there, accepting that the universe clearly had a sense of humor—and I was, unfortunately, the joke.
The flight landed just as the horizon began to glow.
As I stepped down the narrow staircase, the first light of morning brushed against my face—soft, golden, almost gentle enough to make me forget how exhausted I was. The air felt different here. Lighter. Warmer.
A few steps ahead, people had already gathered near the exit—faces searching, hands raised, voices breaking into laughter the moment they found who they were waiting for. A woman stood slightly apart from the others, holding a bouquet of lilies, her fingers tightening nervously around a small name tag.
Something about her pulled at me.
For a brief second, I thought of my mother.
A man brushed past me in a hurry, and the moment broke. I adjusted my bag and moved forward with the rest, my eyes instinctively scanning the crowd now.
Dylan.
I searched once, then again—more carefully this time, slower.
But he wasn't there.
The realization didn't hit all at once. It settled quietly, like something slightly out of place.
I pulled out my phone and called him.
The ring stretched on.
No answer.
I tried again, shifting my weight, glancing up between calls as if he might suddenly appear. I wasn't in the mood to wander around with my suitcase and backpack like I had nowhere to be, so I kept trying—more out of reluctance to figure things out myself than real expectation.
Still nothing.
By the fourth attempt, the silence on the other end started to feel deliberate. By the sixth, the anticipation I had carried with me the entire way had thinned into something sharper.
I lowered the phone, exhaling through my nose.
"Fine."
If he wasn't coming, I wasn't waiting.
I opened our group chat, scrolling until I found the address he'd once dropped casually—back when it had meant nothing. Now it felt oddly important.
I booked a taxi.
The city blurred past the window.
I leaned back, my head resting lightly against the seat, eyes half-closed—not enough to sleep, just enough to shut everything out. The tiredness was still there, sitting somewhere deep, but it couldn't settle properly.
Not with this irritation threading through it.
Somewhere along the way, as the streets began to look less familiar, I tried calling Ether—more out of a quiet, passing doubt that I might still end up at the wrong place than any real expectation that he would actually pick up.
I tried calling again.
This time Ether.
Nothing.
That… stung more than I expected.
I dropped my hand into my lap, staring out the window again as the driver turned into a quieter street.
I recognized the house immediately.
I had seen it too many times through a screen not to—the balcony, the slight curve of the railing, even the way the front door sat just off-center.
Standing in front of it now felt strange.
Too real.
I walked up and pressed the bell.
The sound echoed inside—sharp, familiar.
I waited.
Pressed it again.
Longer this time.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then—
footsteps.
Ether opened the door, and I followed him in, adjusting my grip on my bag as I stepped into the space I was apparently going to be staying in.
The lounge opened up immediately in front of me, and I tilted slightly past Ether's shoulder—just enough to see the room properly.
That's when I saw him.
Dylan.
Already on the couch, controller in hand, completely absorbed in the game like nothing else existed.
For a second, I just stood there, not reacting yet. Ether was sitting nearby, half-leaning back like he was already tired, and said something that I didn't fully catch.
I expected something more… maybe a hug, maybe a loud "you're finally here," something that made it feel like I had actually returned after all this time.
But I was tired, Ether already looked half asleep, and Dylan didn't even glance away from the game. So instead of a big reunion moment, it just turned into a quiet "oh, you're here" kind of situation.
Not bad. Just… less emotional than what my brain had clearly been imagining on the flight.
Then the feeling shifted slightly—not dramatic, just a small drop in energy.
I set my bag down slowly where I was standing, still looking at him.
Ether said something again from the couch, but I only caught pieces of it.
Dylan still didn't move.
Still fully inside that game.
And somewhere between exhaustion and that quiet disappointment, I walked further in.
"Dylan," Ether muttered, like a warning—but it was already too late.
I was already reaching for the plug.
The moment I pulled it out, the screen went black.
Silence dropped into the room like it had been physically switched on.
Dylan froze.
For half a second, he didn't even react—like the world had just stopped making sense.
Then he turned.
Slowly.
"What the hell?"
I didn't move. "Six calls."
His grip tightened on the controller like it personally offended him. "I was in the middle of something."
"I called you," I said, voice tighter now, "six times."
"I didn't see them."
"At the airport," I continued, stepping closer without thinking, "you said you'd be there."
That finally made him look up fully.
"…Did I?" he said, like the detail of promises was optional information.
I let out a short breath, glancing at the dead screen. "Yeah. Apparently I imagined that part."
"You don't just come into someone's house and unplug their console," he said, stepping forward now, voice sharp. "I was literally about to win."
"Do I look like, I care about your game. Right now."
"Well I care about my game right now," he snapped.
Before I could say anything else, he grabbed my wrist—not rough, just firm, like a decision.
"Not like this," he said, low.
And then he was already turning me toward the door.
"Dylan—" Ether started, half sitting up.
But Dylan wasn't listening.
He guided me out with my bag still in my hand, like the conversation had already ended in his head.
The door opened.
And just like that—
I was outside.
It shut behind me with a solid click.
Final. Casual. Done.
For a moment, I just stood there.
Then I knocked.
Once. Twice.
Nothing.
And the anger came late—but heavier.
I stared at the door like it might change its mind.
It didn't.
I stepped back, pulling out my phone, and called Big Bro.
He picked up on the first ring.
And just hearing his voice was enough.
Everything spilled out—messy, uneven, not entirely fair. I told him what happened, shaping it as I went, leaning more into how it felt than how it looked.
"I got dragged out of the house like I'd committed a crime," I said. "And Dylan was just sitting there like his game was a life-or-death situation."
There was a short pause on the other end.
Nick finally spoke. "Sounds like a very serious villain arc on your side."
That made me stop for a second.
"…Excuse me?"
"You," he said calmly, "against a gaming console. I'm picturing it."
I let out a small laugh without meaning to.
"I'm not the villain here."
"Debatable," he said.
I shook my head, still smiling a little. "I'm tired. I didn't even get welcomed properly." I added, half complaining, half tired.
"Mm," Nick's tone softened more. "That's on them, not you."
I went quiet for a second.
Then he said, more quietly, "You don't have to carry their mood with you, alright?"
That landed differently.
"…Yeah," I said.
"Good," he replied. "Let it go for now."
Then he added, casually, "Alright. I will teach them a lesson for you. That counts?"
That actually made me laugh more properly this time.
"Barely," I said.
"Will see!" he replied.
When I finished, there was a brief pause.
But then he added,
"Ash wants to talk to you."
I blinked, caught off guard.
"Ash?"
That wasn't expected.
I knew they were close. I knew they stayed in touch.
But I didn't think she would reach out to me.
Not like this.
It had been a long time. After everything that happened back then, we just… stopped talking properly.
Not fights. Not anything loud.
Just silence that stayed too long.
This time, though—
it was her.
I stared at my phone for a second, then answered.
"Sup, Ash?"
There was a short pause on the other end.
Then—
Her voice.
Familiar, but softer than I remembered.
And for a second, I just… smiled without meaning to.
I stared at my phone for a second before answering, not really expecting the conversation to feel normal after everything that had happened between us. But when Ash spoke, it didn't fall apart the way I thought it would—it was just… there, like no time had passed and like too much time had passed at the same time.
We talked a little, mostly light things at first, until she asked about Dylan and Ether. I was still annoyed from earlier, so I tried to make it sound small, joking that they "probably they won't die" but the moment it left my mouth, I felt it land wrong.
There was a pause from her side—long enough that my smile faded a little as I realized I shouldn't have said it like that, not with everything tied to the past. I opened my mouth to fix it, but Nick smoothly cut in from the side, changing the topic like it was the most natural thing in the world, talking about something completely unrelated just to pull the weight off the moment.
To anyone else it would've sounded casual, but I knew he wasn't interrupting the conversation—I knew he was pulling me out of it.
And by the end of it, I realized it wasn't really about fixing anything in loud, obvious ways. It was just Nick, stepping in at the right time, shifting things slightly before they could break too far. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that asked for attention. Just enough to make sure I didn't fall into a mess I couldn't climb out of—and somehow, that was exactly what saved the day.