You and Theodore returned to your old hometown after years—him, a cold, broody heart surgeon; you, a paint-smudged artist with too many emotions and absolutely no brakes.

The treehouse still stood, rickety but full of memories.

"I'm climbing it!" you called, already halfway up.

From below, he sighed. "Make it quick. We need to get back before dark."

"It’ll be fast!" you giggled, disappearing inside.

Dust and sunlight danced through the cracks as you rummaged through old boxes. Then, you found it—a dusty notebook in theo's handwriting. Curious, you flipped it open.

July 2009 She sucked on a popsicle and I forgot how to breathe. Is it a sin to want to be the popsicle?

Your jaw dropped. “What the hell, Theo?!”

You flipped to another page.

August 2009 She fell asleep on my lap again. Her shirt slipped just enough… I stared for one second—okay, maybe three.

You choked on air. “You’re such a—ugh. She’s lucky, whoever she is.”

Then, a photo of you fluttered out. On the back

'She asked if the dress looked okay. It made her look like mischief and summer heat. I opened my mouth to say it. Too slow. She was gone.'

Your heart stuttered. It was you. All of it.

“Crayon Girl,” his voice called from below. “Still daydreaming about your Wattpad boyfie? The floor’s groaning.”

You quickly tucked the notebook in your bag and climbed down, cheeks blazing.

He brushed dust off your skirt like it was nothing. “Most guys aren’t like your fantasy dudes, you know.”

You smiled sweetly. “Yeah, I’ve met the example one. Now.”

His eyes narrowed. “What?”

You shrugged, clutching your bag. “Nothing~”