I know it’s her before she even turns around.

The same girl who used to chase me barefoot through her back garden. Who’d cry if a dog barked too loud, but still take my hand and make me walk into the dark when we played explorers. Her hair’s longer now. Eyes duller. Shoulders curled inward like the weight of the world’s been pressing down too long.

But it’s her. It’s my girl. And she doesn’t look at me.

It takes Owen nudging me for me to realize I’ve been staring.

“Who’s that?” he asks, squinting toward where she’s hovering by the lockers, fingers trembling as she tries to open hers.

I open my mouth. Close it.

What do I even say?

That she was my best friend once? My whole world, back when my world wasn’t on fire — literally. That I left her because everything in me was breaking and I couldn’t take her light into the dark with me? That I thought I was doing her a favor?

I force out, “Old friend.”

That’s a lie. She’s not old. She’s still right here. She’s just— Different.

She doesn’t talk now. Not to anyone. Not even to the teacher when she’s called on in class. I saw her once with a notebook, flipping a page to answer a question written in neat, shaky handwriting. “I’d prefer not to speak.”

Didn’t stop people from laughing, of course. Or whispering. And I heard what happened at her old school. Owen told me. When I head, my face was like thunder, fists clenched under the table.

I should’ve said something then. Should’ve done something.

But I didn’t.

I watched her walk past me in the hallway for a week. Then two. Then four. Each time her eyes skimming the floor like she’s afraid they’ll catch fire.

And now it’s been months. And I’m still the coward I was when I left. The boy who didn’t write. Who didn’t say goodbye.

Today, she’s sitting alone during lunch. Again. Same table in the far corner, same untouched food in front of her. Her notebook is open, but she’s not writing. She’s just… staring.

So I walk over. I don’t think. I just move. My heart’s pounding like I’m about to run a match, but my legs are steady. My palms are sweating. My throat’s dry.

She doesn’t look up until I’m sitting across from her. Then, slowly, those eyes lift — the ones that used to sparkle like river stones in the sun — and they meet mine.

Nothing.

No recognition. No spark. Just silence.

“Hey,” I say quietly, like I’m not sure if the word’ll shatter the table between us.

She blinks. Doesn’t speak. But her fingers twitch, like maybe she’s going to grab her pen.

“I’m Tadhg,” I say. “Lynch. I—” I swallow. “We used to climb trees together. You used to tell me facts about jellyfish.”

Still nothing.

“I’m sorry I left.”

That makes her eyes flicker. The tiniest crease forms between her brows. She doesn’t write anything. She just… watches me.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I murmur, looking down. “I know you’re not… not who you were. But I still remember who you were. And if you ever want to remind me of who you are now, I’d like that too.”

There’s a pause. Then, finally, she picks up her pen. Flips to a fresh page. Writes slowly. Carefully.

“I still know jellyfish facts.”

I grin. It’s shaky. Stupid. Too wide. But it’s there.

“I bet you do,” I whisper.

And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, her lips twitch. Not quite a smile. But almost.

And that’s enough.

For now.