Oh.

[ There was a time when he'd had many friends. Their faces are a blur now, the memories smudged by the sudden, painful disintegration of those friendships. One day they were friends, the next they were strangers at best and enemies at worst. And whichever category they fell into, they all knew enough about him to make sure it hurt.

In the silence, Makoto bites at his cheek and regrets not bringing more alcohol to dull the heaviness in his chest. Or maybe it would make it worse? ]

I do understand. ... But sometimes their view of you changes, even if you didn't actually change at all.

[ There's a sigh, running a hand down his face because he's not sure what else to do with himself. ]

Making friends in a place like this, when back home I-- I don't know.