Do you remember the quiet girl that sat by you in Spanish class last year? You thought she was cute and you stuttered when you asked her for her number (en español, of course). She stuttered too when she gave it to you.

She won’t be the same anymore. She’ll have a new haircut, a new wardrobe, and a new whopping ego to top it all off. She won’t speak to you anymore without pointing her plastic-perfect nose towards the sky.

The guys who are a year younger than us, who thought you were the coolest thing since Pokemon Emerald Green, will have grown up. They’ll be switching those hideous sneakers out for loafers, and the thick-framed specs for contact lenses. They won’t be watching superhero movies anymore or playing with trading cards. They’ll be too busy partying while you study out of the morbidly thick textbook that never leaves your side.

You’ll walk amongst the crowd on the first day back and look for the one person you can trust to stay the same. But I won’t be there. I’ll be standing with my new group of well-dressed friends, leaning against a brand new truck bought with the birthday money I’d originally saved up for a trip to the biggest alien ship landing pad in America.

You’ll be all alone, locked out by anyone who matters in this world.

- - -

Do you remember when you lied to that girl about where you worked? She was a concept artist, so you told her you were on the technical development team, a fancy-sounding occupation you heard me mention a long, long, long time ago.. You’ll recognize the name of the guy she cites as the one person she admires the most.

All the guys you hung out with high school, who all wanted to be you, will have gone on. They’ll be switching the football jerseys for coach’s uniforms, and the band t-shirts for expensive suits. They won’t be dreaming big dreams or partying away their years of youth anymore. They’ll be too busy living those big dreams while you’re stuck at a desk job you hate more than anything.

You’ll be standing in the middle of a crowd of people who speak a language you don’t understand. They’ll be documenting the every move of a plain-looking loser in a button-up shirt and a fedora. You’ll be next to a starry-eyed girl who’ll stop looking at you the minute she leaves your beat-up truck. The way she’ll speak my name will be as if it’s something sacred, like every syllable is something special. She’ll speak my name more often than she’ll speak yours.

And you’ll realize that all this time, it’s been you who has been alone.