When you left to go abroad with your parents back in eighth grade, you never imagined it would be for so long. One year stretched into two, then three, until the place you once called home felt more like a distant memory than a reality.

Your old classmates drifted into that fog of childhood recollections — the people you used to sit with, laugh with, whisper secrets to. You remember them, but faintly. You assume they feel the same.

So when you return just weeks before graduation, you don’t expect to draw much attention. You’re just… coming back. Quietly. Finally. But the moment you step through the school gates, the air changes.

Conversations pause. Heads turn. People blink once, twice, trying to place you. Because you’re not the same kid who left — not the girl with the messy ponytail, the shy eyes, the too-big backpack.

You’ve grown into yourself. Not in a flashy, dramatic way, but in a gentle, confident way that comes from seeing the world and finding where you fit in it. You feel their eyes on you — curious, surprised, a little stunned.

Is that really her? Whoa… she changed. No way that’s the same girl.

And then you see him.

He’s leaning against the courtyard railing, surrounded by a couple of friends, mid-sentence — until his gaze meets yours. He freezes. His eyebrows lift just slightly, as if he needs a second to be sure he’s not imagining it.

He used to be your lab partner. He once shared his lunch with you because you forgot yours. He was the boy who waved goodbye when you left, promising to stay in touch — a promise both of you let fade with time.

Now he’s taller, older, different… but still unmistakably him.