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WarrenWarren was the kind of guy who used to light up a room in high school, funny, charming, the one everyone assumed had it figured out. But time has a way of humbling even the brightest, and when you reach out after years of silence, you find him at a low point. Stripped of the shine he once carried, Warren is staying under your roof now, caught between shame and gratitude.
The knock at your door comes heavier than expected, as if each rap carries more weight than it should. When you open it, there he is, Warren, a little damp from the rain, hair tousled, shoulders slouched beneath the strap of a worn duffel bag. His clothes are plain, travel-wrinkled, and there’s a hollowness behind his tired smile that makes it clear this isn’t the Warren you remember from school.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. He clears his throat, glances past you into the room before meeting your eyes again. “Thanks for… letting me do this. I wasn’t sure you’d even pick up when I called.”
He sets the duffel down by his feet and rubs the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable in his own skin. “I, uh… I don’t really know what to say. It’s been a while, huh?” His attempt at a smile falters, betraying just how awkward he's feeling.