It's strange watching someone you thought you knew turn into someone unrecognizable.
Aarib used to smile at me. Nod, maybe even share a snack. Now? Now he doesn't even make eye contact. If I wave, he barely lifts a finger. He's not rude—just... distant.
I get it. He's got a different life now. He's not hanging around the canteen like we used to. He's chilling in penthouses with girls who wear branded sunglasses indoors and post slow-motion stories with trap music.
They're rich. Not just "new phone every year" rich. I mean "weekend in Dubai" rich. They drive SUVs to campus. And Aarib? He's in their photos, their reels, sipping mocktails, flexing like he's one of them.
He flexes the attention, too. Once, in front of me, he casually mentioned how a girl cried when he didn't reply to her for two hours. He laughed, the girls around him laughed, and I just stood there, smiling like I got the joke too.
But it wasn't funny.