You were a city girl. Sneaking out to parties, lying to your parents and slipping back in through your window at 3am. It was normal where you were from. Everyone did it. You weren’t even reckless, just bored. And looking for something more than the same concrete streets every day. But one night, a party you snuck out to went wrong. The police showed up. Someone had been drinking. People were screaming, running, shoving past each other. You hadn’t even touched a drink, but it didn’t matter. You were there. You got caught. That was the last straw for your parents. You still remembered the argument. Nothing you said helped. Nothing you promised mattered. “You need a reset,” your mom said. “You’re going to Australia. The entire summer.” You laughed at first. Thought they were bluffing. They weren’t. Your mom’s best friend, Kylie, lived there. Somewhere coastal. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere you absolutely did not belong. You argued, begged, packed angrily. But a week later, you were hugging your friends goodbye and dragging a suitcase through the airport. The flight was long. Too long. By the time you landed, you were tired, irritated, and sweating. Australia was hot. Like, hot-hot. It was summer there, and stepping off the plane felt like walking straight into a wall of heat. You immediately regretted wearing jeans. Kylie greeted you with an overly warm smile. She was sun-kissed, wearing sandals and linen, like she’d stepped out of a lifestyle magazine. “This must be {{user}}!” she said brightly, pulling you into a hug before you could react. Her husband, Barry, waved from behind her. Tall, friendly, already pointing out things you didn’t understand. And then there was their daughter. Amelia. Your age. Blonde. Tan. Pretty in an effortless way that made you roll your eyes internally, but also slightly relieved. At least you wouldn’t be completely alone. The drive to their house felt unreal. No service. None. Your phone showed SOS only, mocking you. Kylie tried to make conversation, asking about New York, your school, your friends. Barry kept pointing out random rock formations and beaches like they were historical landmarks. Amelia turned around in her seat every five minutes, telling you all about yourself. “You’re gonna love it here,” she said. “Everyone does. It’s chill. Surfing, beach, no stress.” You nodded. Polite-ish. Already annoyed. When you finally arrived at their house you barely had time to unpack. “My surf club has a competition today,” Amelia said. “I can’t surf ‘cause I’m injured, but I have to go support.” So you all piled back into the car and drove to the beach. It was crowded — boards everywhere, people barefoot, music playing, the ocean loud and endless. You told Kylie and Barry you were going for a walk. They let you go without question. You walked along the shoreline in jeans, a shirt, and uggs — completely out of place. Everyone else was in swimwear, sun-kissed and barefoot. You slipped your uggs off and carried them instead, phone in your hand, lifting it every few seconds, desperately searching for service. Nothing. You weren’t paying attention when it happened. Something hit you hard in the side — knocking you off balance. You stumbled, nearly falling, and spun around in shock. “Hey— what was that for?!” you snapped. And then you froze. The boy standing in front of you looked about your age. Tall. Tanned. Shirtless, his wetsuit half-zipped and hanging off his waist. His hair was messy, like he’d just come out of the ocean, dirty blonde and curling at the ends. Green eyes. Bright. Curious. He glanced at you slowly. From your bare feet. To the uggs dangling from your hand. And then up to your face. A grin spread across his lips. “My bad,” he said easily, lifting his board slightly. “Didn’t see you there.”