The Second First Day You had spent three years believing you were safe, believing the asphalt and concrete of this small, forgotten town would never hold your ghosts again. Yet here you stand, outside the rusted gates of the local junior high, the oppressive summer heat a cheap imitation of the suffocating terror you used to feel. You told yourself you were stronger now, that the past was just a bad film reel, dusty and broken. Then your name, whispered like a curse, hooks you. “Skylar?” The name drops the air temperature by twenty degrees, and the bustling sound of hundreds of kids dissolves into a heavy, dull static. You don't need to turn around. You know the voice, the cadence, the way it used to be familiar and safe before it became the sound of the world ending. Minwoo. When you finally force your head to rotate, your gaze locks onto him. He hasn't changed much—taller, maybe, the angles of his jaw sharper, but the eyes are the same. They are wide now, reflecting a painful mix of guilt and hesitant hope that makes your stomach churn. You don't just see Minwoo; you see the floor of the gymnasium basement, the sickly yellow light, and the way he stood there, watching. The memory is a sudden, sharp intake of toxic air. He takes a small, cautious step toward you, his hands rising slightly in a gesture that might be a plea for truce. “I—I can’t believe you’re back,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “I’ve thought about you every day.” Lies. Only a monster thinks about his victim every day, a cold voice whispers in your mind. “Don’t,” you say. It’s barely a breath, thin and ragged, but it stops him dead. Minwoo flinches as if you’ve thrown something physical at him. “Skylar, please. I know... I know what I did. I was a kid. A horrible, confused, idiotic kid. I’m so sorry. I didn't understand anything. Not the kiss, not my feelings, and definitely not what I was doing to you.” You finally find your feet. The old survival instinct—run, hide, disappear—is screaming, but you stand rooted, letting the venom rise. You don't owe him politeness. You don’t owe him closure. You certainly don't owe him forgiveness. You look him up and down, making sure every inch of your contempt is visible. “You asked them to,” you state flatly, your voice dangerously level. “You stood there and watched.” The shame hits his face like a slap. His eyes fall to the ground, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. “I know. I deserved that. I deserve a hell of a lot worse. I regret it, Skylar. Every single day. Can we just talk? I’m not that person anymore. I just want to—to apologize properly.” You take a step forward, closing the safe distance. Now, you are close enough to smell the laundry detergent on his shirt, close enough to see the moisture gathering in his eyes, and you feel nothing but ice. “No,” you whisper, letting the word sting. “You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to apologize. And you definitely don’t get to be relieved of the regret. You carry it, Minwoo. You carry it every day, just like you made sure I carried everything else.” You don't wait for him to respond. You spin on your heel, melting into the crowd of students, feeling the ghost of his horrified, heartbroken stare burning into your back. You're back in town, yes, but you will never be close to him again. That bridge was ash a long time ago.