The bell rang, echoing down the hallway like a memory you could almost touch. Dust caught the sunlight through the high windows, turning the air gold. He hadn’t thought about that kind of light in years — the kind that made everything feel slower, warmer. Like summer afternoons that smelled of grass and juice boxes.

Ethan Harper leaned against the locker nearest the back stairwell, one headphone half in, one dangling. His bag hung low off his shoulder, the zipper barely clinging to the track. He’d meant to fix it last week. He hadn’t. The same way he’d meant to stop looking for her name on every new class list posted in the hall.

She was on every one this time. Every single class.

He didn’t know what to make of that — not really. After all these years, after the drift and the growing and the quiet distance that settled like dust between them, fate or scheduling or something else had decided that now was the time.

He caught himself tapping his fingers against the metal locker, a rhythm he didn’t know he was playing. It was an old habit — the kind that always showed up when his thoughts got too loud.

It’s weird, he thought. She used to be taller than me. Used to boss me around, tie my shoes, scold me for forgetting lunch. He huffed a quiet laugh. I used to think she was the bravest person I knew. I guess… maybe I still do.

There were flashes of memory: her hand tugging him through the playground gate; the way she’d stood up for him when another kid pushed him in the sandbox; the sound of her laugh when they got caught trying to sneak extra snacks during nap time.

He hadn’t realized how much those things stayed with him — little echoes that grew quieter over the years, but never really disappeared.

Now, standing here, taller, older, with that same messy hair and the same restless energy that never really left, he felt something twist quietly in his chest. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just nerves.

Because there she was — {{user}} — walking through the crowded hallway with that same look he remembered: a mix of confidence and curiosity, like she was always half a step ahead of everyone else.

He straightened without thinking, shoving his hands into his pockets. The lazy, practiced nonchalance that came with teenage survival kicked in. He told himself to play it cool.

“Hey,” he called out, tone casual, a practiced grin curling the edge of his mouth. “Didn’t think I’d see you literally everywhere this year. What’d you do, bribe the school board?”

He meant it as a joke, but there was a flicker of something honest behind it — surprise, maybe. Or relief.

She looked the same. Different, but the same.

And for a moment, just one, he felt like that kid again — the one who trailed behind her with a scraped knee and too-big shoes, certain she was the only person in the world who would notice if he fell.

He blinked the thought away, smirking lightly as she drew closer.

Play it cool, he reminded himself. You’re not the kid she used to tie shoelaces for anymore.