Author's Note:

I miss Friends, even if I wasn't there for the weekly release of each episode. I loved it so much. And as I'm sure you're beginning to learn if you've read my other content, I'm into every ship that seems to be forbidden by TV show writers and beloved by fans.

I loved Joey and Rachel together. I can't help but feel that while Rachel chose Ross, Ross and Rachel weren't meant to spend forever together. Love isn't fighting every time there's a rough patch and someone is jealous. Love is telling who you love to move in with the father of the baby so that your best friend isn't missing more than what he's already missed, even if you know that in the end, it'll bring those two people back together. So fight me all you want but here's for my fellow Joey and Rachel fans.

One last thing: Ross is not going to be made out to be awful, such as abusive or anything to that sort. A sweet, little bean deserves better than to be written like that. But I also think that Rachel deserved better than that, even if it is undeniable that Ross will always love her. Not particularly recommended for Rachel and Ross fans.

After the stroke of ten years, he had become too aware of how different he'd become. No matter how much he had tried to keep the dream of being an actor alive, with a few good roles on television and a movie, he accepted what everyone around him was saying. To give up and to get a real job.

So he did, moving back to New York, where he truly belonged. And nestled in with all the buildings around it was 90 Bedford Street, his old home with the same apartment open. Apparently, there'd been nearly thirty six residents in and out of it, though none seemed to stay for all too long. To this date, Joey had been the longest one to live there.

He was also the only one of his friends who wasn't married and settled down with children, though he wouldn't say that he was out of game quite yet. There was still time for that, it just wasn't now. Even if that day would never come, he knew he would pour just as much love into Jack and Erica, the new Geller children, as he would've into his own.

When he'd contacted the landlord, the man had been reluctant to take him back, but did after there was an assurance that he wasn't the same, lively, twenty five year old who would set fire to baseballs to see how long it would last. And it was only when he opened up the door to the small kitchen that he was hit with the kaleidoscope of memories that he knew would catch up to him.

It was in the living room that he saw Chandler and himself, laughing together as they watched Baywatch, two beers and half eaten (well, near Chandler's beer) Chinese cuisine, though in much different chairs than the ones they had picked for themselves. Just across the hall was Monica, yelling about how filthy Rachel had left the kitchen after trying a recipe, followed by Ross and himself trying to soothe the girl; everyone knew how terrifying Monica could be. Phoebe rested against the stool near the counter, growing increasingly frustrated with his own inability to understand complex subjects. (He was out having sex in high school rather than learning. Could anyone blame him?)

But there was one that struck him more than the others, making the others fade into specks of dust, as if they hadn't haunted him just as much. It was Rachel, sitting next to him on the now gaudy, yellow couch, sharing a laugh with him. Her head tilted back on the cushions, his own looking at her as if she were his whole world. And she was, still is.

Sure, Alex had been wonderful, a bright light in the dating life in the sense that he was actually able to stay to her and not move around. But Rachel? She'd been the first love, the unforgettable love. Even when it came down to saying goodbye, he was barely able to do it. He remembered all too well how she made him feel; it was more than sexual attraction, but the kind of attraction that simply laying on the couch and watching a chick flick, intentionally, could bring.

Only Rachel had been able to give him that feeling of stuttering on his words. But he knew exactly where he was for her, a flicker of interest in comparison to the everloving and patient Ross. He was her best friend and nothing more. Being her best friend meant suppressing all the feelings he had allowed to build up for her, all while being sure to comfort her at any given moment.

With such a description, he figured they would've talked more than they did, and yet, she was nowhere to be found in his list of call logs on his phone, nor had she been for years now. The last they'd talked, Emma had her sixth birthday, the miniature Rachel managing to steal the phone to talk to him. And just as he suspected, Emma had the same honey warmth in her voice that Rachel carried, one that assured nothing but a sweet human behind the words.

Joey rolled the suitcase into his room after closing the door, almost expecting an etch-a-sketch to still be on the back of the door from his time living there, with some ridiculous and child-like drawing that had come to his head from what would be considered his youthful years.

As he laid down in his bed, there was something in him that felt that his own reflection into his mind wouldn't be the last he would see of his friends after coming back; it was that notion that let him fall asleep much easier than he expected. After all, sometimes his hunches came from a good spot.