The lights slowly flicker above the man sitting at the slightly worn mahogany dining room table.  He sits, hunched slightly over the dingy wood while his elbows rest uneasily on the tabletop, despite the years of training from the women in his life not to do so--it wasn’t polite, after all.  God knows he has heard that enough for twelve lifetimes.  

His hips are teetering uncomfortably on the edge of the cushion-less wooden chair, too restless to get comfortable, and too nervous to stand up.  His left hand is barely holding up the weight of his head, occasionally allowing his fingers to scratch lightly at the stubble that he calls his hair these days.  His right hand slowly plays with a metal ring, fingering it every once in awhile in between flicks of his fingers, sending the cool metal into circulating rhythms that eventually cease until he musters enough courage to pick it up and flick it again.

How did he get here?

He wonders that himself.  Often, in fact.  No...not just often.  Every fucking second of every fucking hour of every fucking day.  He used to be someone. He used to have family.  Notoriety.  Power.  He used to have control.  He used to have fame, and money, and luxury, and friends, and things.  Lots of things.  He used to be happy.  

He used to have her.

But now he has nothing.  Now he is nothing, except the shell of an existence that tortures his every waking moment.

His thoughts are interrupted when he hears a knock on the door that echoes slightly against the bare walls of the eerily empty house, abandoned since his grandmother's death a few years ago.  He sighs, letting the air rush out of his lungs before barely finding his feet, taking every ounce of energy he has to push himself into a standing position.  He takes a deep breath to replenish the missing oxygen before sliding his wedding ring back into his front pocket as he starts the somber walk to the front door.

He looks down at the door knob, hoping silently that the person on the other side is someone worth seeing, even though he knew that wouldn't be the case.  His hand shakes slightly as he turns the knob ever so slowly, opening it reluctantly to find his former best friend, Trace Ayala, eyeing him curiously, almost in a nervous fashion.  No, he was not in the mood for this.  He was not in the mood for him.

“Hey man,” Trace starts.  He watches Trace look up at him wearily, his hands sliding deeper into his front pockets, an obvious sign of nervousness.  “Heard you just moved back into town.  It’s been awhile.  I just, uh...” he sighs, hearing Trace trail off as he watched the young man's eyes shift hazily towards his own feet, gently kicking at the torn welcome mat that isn't looking very welcoming these days.  “I just thought it’d be good to see you, you know.  I know...” 

He interrupts him.  He had to.  “What is it that you know, Trace?” he spits vehemently.  “You know that I’m a fucking fuckup?  You know I’m worthless? That I’m a piece of shit?  Is that what you came here to tell me?  Because  if that's the case, I've already heard it.  That’s what everyone else around here fucking thinks, and has reminded me repeatedly of since I got into town a few days ago. Or did you finally muster up enough balls to come here to admit that you were a shitty best friend?"

An awkward silence ensues before he continues his rant, desperately needing to get it off of his chest.  "So what is it, Trace?  Please...tell me what the fuck you know, because it’s really fucking obvious that I know absolutely nothing and would really fucking love your enlightenment,” he finishes pointedly, the hurt and sarcasm more than evident in his tempestuous voice.

He watches Trace sigh, and part of him felt a slight pang in his chest.  Deep down, he knows that none of this is Trace’s fault, but all he seems capable of these days is blaming people.  It’s easier than accepting any of the blame himself, and let’s face it.  Justin Timberlake is the master of blaming everyone else but himself.

“Stop being a fucking asshole, Justin.” Trace counteracts after he gathers his thoughts. “You can be pissed off at me and everyone else, for that matter, for the fact that you fucked up your entire fucking life, or you can be just a little happy about the fact that you’ve moved back here to Millington and can spend some time with some real people.  Not the fake and bake assholes that got you into this mess in the first place, but the real people that you pushed away a long ass time ago.  The real people that can get you back on your feet.”

“I don’t need your fucking charity, Trace.  It’s bad enough I’m living in Grammy’s old house. I don’t need this too,” he finishes, looking down at his own feet, feeling the shame painting his now cold features.

“I’m not trying to make you a charity case, Justin.  But we used to be best friends, before you married that stupid whore and wrote the entire world off. I know that I made my share...of, um....mistakes....and that you went through a bunch of shit, more than anyone deserves...especially being in the public eye...but you know what?  If it means it’s the only shot of getting the real Justin back, then fuck, man.  I’ll take it.  I fucking miss you, dude,” Trace finishes quietly.

He watches as the honesty slid easily from Trace’s lips, the young man's eyes holding a sincerity he hadn’t seen in a long time.  Trace was always so easy to read--his face and intentions as transparent as a ghost.  Yet, he still didn’t know if he should trust him again.  He didn’t know if he was even capable of trust, not after what he had been through.

“Fine, as long as you stop acting like a pussy.” he finally replies, almost bashfully.  What else was he supposed to say?  What else could he say?

He watches curiously as Trace nods in agreement before eliciting an uncomfortable display of awkward silence, followed by another awkward attempt at breaking it.  

“Good, now move your skinny ass aside.  Have you even eaten in the past month?  You look emaciated.  If you start getting that pot belly that the little African kids get, then I'm boycotting our friendship." Trace jokes, but he watches the young man's demeanor change as soon as he gives him the look of death, the look that he has perfected over the past year and a half.  Justin didn't even bother uttering another word to Trace.  He just let him pass by him into Grammy's house before Trace could start talking again.

"I’ve got some beer and some golf clubs...we can head down to the field in Shelby Forest and just smash shit like old times.  Looks like you need it,” Trace finishes, giving him that infamous side smirk that Justin knew so well.

The truth is, he would be lying if he even remotely denied missing that smile. It reminded him of the good 'ol days--of times filled with laughter, debauchery, women, and sheer happiness.  Times of carefree fun, of true friendship.  Yes, those were the days, indeed.  Oh, what he wouldn't give to relive them again.

But will those days ever exist again?  Is there even a point in going to Shelby Forest, of lamely trying to rehash old traditions in the woods? Is there a point to him coming back to Millington, to this small-ass town that he swore he would never come back to?  Him and Trace are both very different, but Justin is more than just different.  He's monumentally different.  His soul has been so badly rocked to the core over the last five years, that he barely recognizes himself in the mirror.  

He stares at Trace for a minute, silently wondering what the man's motive is, but he decides not to question it.  It's not like he has a life to get to, or something better to do.  All that is gone, now.  So instead, he holds out hope.  Maybe there's a chance this really could be like old times.  

Or perhaps they're both just trying to hold onto something that they will probably never know again, but are too afraid to let go of.  

Only time will tell.