I bought all his records, taped his posters to my bedroom wall. Every evening, I’d gaze at his flawless face before switching off the light, inviting him into my dreams.
Years later, I spot him at a dive bar. His once-shaggy hair, hidden beneath a baseball cap, has greyed, and the sparkle in his blue eyes has vanished. I linger nearby, gathering the courage to communicate what he’s meant to me. Finally, I whisper his name. He turns. Our eyes meet. Just like I’d always imagined. He shakes his head, says, ‘I’m not that guy anymore.’
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