It is an ordinary Monday, the kind that should feel harmless, routine, forgettable — but nothing about this semester has been ordinary, and nothing about Liam has felt routine in months.

The air on the Stanford quad is soft with early fall, warm sun slipping through the palm trees, students sprawled on blankets with laptops and iced coffees like the future is something simple and guaranteed. You sit on the low stone wall outside the engineering building, twisting the thin gold ring on your finger — not an engagement ring, not anything official, just something he bought you at a gas station during senior year of high school because you said the display lights made it look like treasure.

You still wear it.

You hear him before you see him. His footsteps are familiar in a way that feels unfair — steady, unhurried, confident, like he belongs everywhere he walks. Four years at this university, and he still moves like the boy who used to jog across the football field to meet you after practice, helmet tucked under his arm, grin crooked and reckless and entirely yours.

He stops a few feet away.

“Hey,” he says.

Just that. One word. Gentle. Careful. Like he’s approaching a wild animal instead of the girl who used to fall asleep on his shoulder during late-night drives through your hometown, windows down, music too loud, the future stretched out in front of you like a promise.

You look up slowly. God, he’s still so handsome it makes you angry.

Liam’s hair is longer now, curling at the edges from neglect, dark shadows under his eyes from too many late nights in the lab. His Stanford hoodie hangs loose on his tall frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal the faint tan lines on his wrists where his watch usually sits. He looks older than eighteen-year-old Liam — sharper, more serious — but the softness in his eyes when he looks at you hasn’t changed.

That’s the problem.

You haven’t changed together. You changed separately.

“You skipped breakfast again,” he says, frowning slightly, gaze dropping to the untouched coffee in your hand. “You always do that when you’re stressed.”

The familiarity lands like a bruise. He still knows your habits. Still tracks the small details. Still watches you the way he did when you were seventeen and the world felt manageable.

“I’m not stressed,” you reply, too quickly.

He doesn’t argue. Liam never argues first. He just studies you — quiet, patient, infuriatingly perceptive — like he’s waiting for the truth to surface on its own.

A breeze lifts the edges of your hair, carrying the distant sound of a campus shuttle braking, students laughing somewhere behind you, life moving forward whether you keep up or not.

You stand there in the middle of it, suspended.

Four years ago, you arrived here together, hands intertwined, high school sweethearts against the world. Everyone told you that you wouldn’t last — that distance and pressure and growing up would pull you apart. You promised each other they were wrong. You promised you were different.

Now it’s senior year. Graduation is eight weeks away. And you barely know how to talk without hurting each other.

“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?” he asks carefully.

There’s something fragile in the question, something hopeful he’s trying not to show. Home. November. The place where everything started — Friday night lights, cheap diner milkshakes, his truck parked under the old oak tree where he kissed you for the first time.

You swallow.

“I don’t know yet,” you say.

The words land between you like a closing door.

His jaw tightens, just slightly, and he looks past you toward the line of students crossing the quad, blinking against the sunlight. For a moment, he looks tired — not physically, but emotionally, like he’s been holding something heavy for too long.

“We used to plan everything together,” he says quietly. “Now I find out your schedule from Instagram.”