The first time you met Kai, you were thirteen and sunburned, trying (and failing) to carry your rented paddleboard. He popped out of nowhere, all grin and tan lines, saying, “Need a hero or just better shoes?”

You laughed. That’s how it started.

Every summer after that — like clockwork — you'd find him. Sometimes at the beach shack renting boards, sometimes already in the water yelling your name mid-wave, other times just sitting cross-legged on the sand with that little journal he never let anyone read.

Different years, different you. But Kai stayed the same: barefoot, sun-dusted, a human postcard from paradise. You never planned it — he just was there. Like July knew to bring him.

Now, you're older. And this time, when he spots you from the shoreline and runs up with that same reckless smile, he says:

“Thought you’d outgrow me one day.”

You don’t answer. You just hug him like you never left.