He's doing that thing boys do, when they put a hand on the back of their neck and bow their head a little bit with a pained expression on their face.

There are suitcases strewn on the floor around him, but they're not as heavy as his emotional baggage. It's been three long years since he's been here, and one long minute he's been waiting at the door. Troy Barnes is coming home, and if there were any time for the dramatic music to start, it is now.

He hasn't knocked on the door. The shiny gold 303 stares at him, daring him to pull out the key that is in his back pocket, and he can definitely hear the music now. It's wistful—not joyful—because there's no one home. Abed Nadir doesn't live here anymore. And Troy Barnes hasn't, not for three years, but he does now.

There's no sense in putting it off any longer, so Troy goes inside. The apartment looks all wrong without the blanket fort. He knew they would have taken it down, when Abed and Annie moved out—moved on—but it still tugs at his heart.

This trip around the world was supposed to help Troy find himself. But all it did was put things on hold, and then unceremoniously dump him back in his life exactly where he had been, only with a couple million more dollars and about five fewer friends.

Coming back feels all wrong. It's sad and mopey, and this is not how Troy wanted it to be. He needs to take hold of his own story and bring back the hijinks. He's willing to do almost anything for that.

So he does what he should have done two years and three hundred sixty-four days ago: he calls Abed.

The phone rings, and he holds his breath. There's a crinkle, and a nasal female voice: The number you've reached is no longer in service.

Tears well up in his eyes, and his face scrunches up. He leans against the wall and slides to the floor, and he's glad Abed and Annie made it out of Greendale, glad they moved on with their lives. Surely this phone call is a sign from the universe, telling him to let go of the past.

The trip around the world did help him realize one thing. Something that maybe should have been evident from his first year at Greendale, something that maybe was.

Troy pulls up his email instead and composes a brief message to his friends: I'm home.

He's sick of listening to the universe. It's time he listens to his heart.