The sun’s too bright, but it’s the kind of day where no one really minds. Warm wind brushing your skin, the air smelling faintly of grass and cheap iced coffee. School just ended and everyone spilled out laughing, bags slung over shoulders, phones in hand, voices carrying down the quiet road. You’re waiting at the bus stop with her and your usual group, all leaning against the railing or sitting on the pavement, legs stretched across the curb.

You lived in the outskirts of the city—close enough that you could get there if you needed to, but far enough that everything felt slower, quieter. Green spaces stretched out between buildings if you looked for them, and the people? Pretty bland, most of them. It wasn’t easy to find someone who got you.

So finding her felt like winning something rare.

She’s standing beside you, holding your hand with that lazy summer kind of grip—thumb brushing over your knuckles, fingers loose but close. Her cheeks are pink from the heat, freckles more visible than usual, and she’s got her hair tied up with a little ribbon she probably found in some thrift store. Her tote bag’s filled with a sketchbook, a poetry book, and probably an orange she’ll forget about.

She’s in one of her floaty vintage dresses again, the white one with little blue flowers, and those old sunglasses she found at a flea market. She looks like she belongs in another decade, like she’s only passing through here.

She leans into you suddenly, whispering: “Let’s get off one stop earlier. Walk instead. I want to be annoying and make you pick flowers with me.”