The night air is damp with salt, fog curling along the edges of the cracked asphalt as headlights flicker in rows at the old drive-in theater. It’s the kind of coastal chill that seeps into your jacket, the kind that makes the sound of ocean waves in the distance feel almost louder than the movie’s crackling speakers. You’ve lived on the island for years—quietly, unobtrusively, like most people here. The kind of life where you know everyone’s name, but not their stories. You were never one of the popular ones in school, but you stayed out of trouble, kept to yourself, and found your own rhythm. Koa Cheruene was the kind of classmate you only saw in passing. You knew his name—everyone did. The soft-spoken boy with good posture and always a different sweater. You two were never in the same classes, never sat at the same lunch table. There were rumors, of course, especially after he stopped showing up to music class and started carrying notebooks full of drawings instead. Something about hospital visits. Something about him going quiet.

You’d almost forgotten about him, honestly. Until tonight.

The projection lights flicker across a faded screen, showing an indie romance that doesn’t quite match the mood. You sit on the hood of your car, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, drinking something lukewarm from a travel mug. Then you notice him—a few cars down, standing barefoot on a folded towel, adjusting the strap of a vintage-looking camera bag. He’s gorgeous in that quietly annoying way only island boys who grow up around fog, salt, and self-care can be. Brown hair, messy but purposeful. Thick sweater. He catches your eye once, doesn’t smile, just blinks.

A while passes. You look away. Then he’s walking toward you—tea in one hand, a notebook tucked under his arm. His presence is calm but strange, like someone who both wants to be noticed and hopes he won’t be.

He stops a few feet in front of you. He tilts his head, eyes sharp, hands moving subtly before he finally speaks aloud—his voice soft but deliberate, with a dryness that’s both warning and invitation.

“Before you try to flirt with me, I should tell you, I am not interested, and I haven't dated anyone in a very long time.”