This is a thing. Here's how to go back: Home.
He has not changed.
It's been a few years since you last saw him. He's a bit taller, a bit scrawnier; his walk is different, more tired and worn and somehow even less lively than before; his voice is raspier (and quieter) as well - but in his eyes you see the same boy you knew back then.
Bitter. Angry. Resentful. Your reflection warps and mutates briefly before he looks away.
Cowardly. Afraid.
You know he got a new job a while back. His clothes look a lot better than what he wore then, all those flimsy, wrinkly things that made winter unbearable replaced by plain, comfortable sweaters and pants in dark tones that made him look even paler than he already was. He moved away from home as well, to a nice little apartment where the neighbors probably don't even know he exists. It wouldn't shock you in the slightest to find out he either doesn't talk to them at all, or does nothing but argue. A new address means nothing when you force yourself to stay right where you are, and his eyes tell you everything you need to know.
He didn't say hi to you, even when you made eye contact. He barely acknowledged you when you greeted him first, only letting out a small 'hey', as if he'd never seen you before. Like always, his eyes are glued to the floor.
You stare at his arms as he crosses them over his chest, his sleeves riding up every so slightly to reveal small, thin lines drawn across his forearms. It only takes a small glimpse for you to realize they're scars. Lots of them.
It's not as shocking as it should be. He was always moody, constantly arguing with others and refusing to see eye-to-eye, as if he was allergic to pleasantness. Of course this lead to most people having a bone to pick with him - bad news when you're the quiet kid with no one on his side. He never told the teachers. You didn't help him out, either, and to this day you don't feel guilty for it. It's not that he had it coming , exactly, it's that things like that just... happen sometimes, don't they? Better him than you, at least.
He lets out a deep sigh and looks around, noticeably avoiding you. It's almost comical how awkward he is.
You stare at him. Same oddly-placed moles. Same square glasses. Same dry lips, dark circles, thin nose. He pretends not to notice.
The cars pass by the bus stop. Across the street, a woman stands still, staring.
She's locked in on him, but switches over to you when you shift in place. Her eyes are wide open, unblinking. Her dark red hair is limp and messy and her clothes seem a bit too big on her; dirty and disheveled. She's pretty, but her eyes make you feel unsafe, like you shouldn't be looking at her. Like something bad's gonna happen if you stare too long. At the same time, you can't bring yourself to look away.
Suddenly, she smiles. It makes her seem the tiniest bit friendlier, but something's still off. Even though she's grinning widely now, her eyes still hold the same blank stare she's had this whole time - and she hasn't looked away once. You're pretty sure she hasn't blinked, either.
You nervously manage to break eye contact in order to glance over at your ex-classmate. He's looking at the woman across the street.
"Do you know her?" you ask, voice coming out a lot louder than you'd hoped, startling you.
He doesn't respond. In fact, he doesn't even acknowledge the question except for a small frown that reminds you of pretty much every single interaction you've ever had with this man.
You can see his stance has shifted. His shoulders have dropped slightly, his hands are no longer gripping at his own arms - he looks like he's actually breathing, now. His gaze has softened, and you could swear there is the faintest hint of a smile forming on his sad, dreadful face.
You look for the woman across the street, only to realize she's nowhere to be found.
The man next to you sighs, tightening his stance again.
The bus is here.