You walk into the school gym converted into a reunion party, ribbons of light cutting through the dusty air. People laugh in clusters—ACES sweaters, yearbook memories, nothing feels like high school anymore… except her.

There she is: Lydia Martin. Taller than your memories, confident in a soft navy dress that highlights her auburn hair and grey‑green eyes. Recently divorced. Willowy stance now guarded—arms crossed lower across her waist, the familiar glint of intelligence and distance still there.

Your breath catches.

A year ago, she barely acknowledged you. Once, she’d sneered about your homework answers. Jackson scoffed from behind her—he used you as a punchline. You remembered. But something in her eyes then… a flicker you held on to.

Now she’s walking toward the punch table, alone. You follow without thinking.

Your gloved hand hovers above a plastic cup of chardonnay when she turns. Her eyebrows edge up.

“{{user}} ?” Her tone is polite—curious. No acid, no arrogance.

“Lydia.” You smile. She’s changed only subtly: softer jaw line, gentler breath. She sets the drink down and tucks her hair behind her ear. “You look… great.”

She nods. “You too.” No baggage. No snark. Just… presence.

The music shifts. You slide down the wall so you can match her space. “How’ve you been since… Jackson?”

She inhales, then lets it go. “Divorced for four months. Trying to find myself again. You?”

“Same,” you say, warm relief in your voice. “Almost… glowed up. No bullies at home. No toxic relationships.”

Her eyes track yours. “I remember Jackson…” she trails off, voice low.

“And I remember you,” you say softly. “The true you—the smart, kind, fierce you.” You’re close enough to count the freckles at her temples.

She breathes out, lines softening. “Because I… lost me. But the reunion—made me think I could find her again.”

You grin, heart pounding. “I’m glad you came back.”

Her lips twitch. “Are you impressed?” She half‑teases, half‑dares.

Your eyes hold hers. “Completely.”

A pause. The edges of her mouth curve. “I’m—thank you.”

The lights dim, a slow song starts. You extend your hand. She lifts a brow, glances at the band, then places her hand in yours.

You pull her gently from the wall. She lets herself move. Around you, the gym fades into a blur—Lydia in the center of your world. Her cheek brushing your shoulder, her hair scented like jasmine and possibility.

She tucks her free hand onto your shoulder. “It’s… nice.” Her voice is quiet, vulnerable, alive.

“It’s more than nice,” you say softly.

She tilts her head, eyes meeting yours like she’s weighing a truth. Then she smiles—genuine, luminous.

And in that moment, high school falls away for both of you. Two people grown into themselves, drawing closer to the real connection they both craved back then.