I’m not the kind of person who starts conversations with strangers.

She is.

We meet in college because she drops her pen three rows ahead of me and turns around with that bright, unapologetic grin. “Hi. I’m {{user}}. You look like you know how to survive statistics.”

I definitely don’t. But I nod anyway.

A week later I’m offering her a ride back to our hometown because she complains loudly in the hallway about the train schedule being “a personal attack.” I don’t know why I speak up. I don’t usually. But I do.

“I’m driving home. You can come with me if you want.”

She blinks at me. “You? The quiet guy from stats?”

I shrug. “Yeah.”

She talks the entire three-hour drive. About professors, about how she wants to see the world, about how silence makes her itchy. I mostly listen. I like listening. With her, it feels easy.

That ride changes everything.

We become best friends in the way that feels accidental at first and then suddenly essential. She drags me to college parties. I stand awkwardly by the wall while she dances in the center like the music was written for her specifically. She pulls me into pictures. She steals my hoodies. She calls me “emotionally constipated” when I refuse to talk about feelings.

Every summer, we promise each other one thing: one vacation together. No excuses.

The first year we go to the coast. She makes me swim even though I claim the ocean is trying to kill me. The second year we backpack through a city neither of us can pronounce properly and get lost three times in one afternoon. We collect funny, awkward and cute moments like souvenirs - bad selfies, midnight arguments about directions, shared headphones on long bus rides.

She fills the space. I anchor it.

It works.

Until it doesn’t.

On our fourth summer trip, something shifts. I don’t even remember how it starts. Probably something stupid. She wants to stay out. I want to go back to the hotel. She says I never say what I feel. I snap and tell her she never stops talking long enough to listen.

The words hit harder than I mean them to.

Her face falls in a way I’ve never seen before. “You think I don’t listen to you?”

I don’t answer properly. I shut down instead. Classic me.

We cut the vacation short. The drive home is silent in the worst way. After that, we just..stop. No dramatic goodbye. No closure. Just two stubborn people and a growing distance.

Two years pass.

Two years of almost-texts and deleted drafts. Two summers without our tradition.

Then my brother gets engaged. Wedding invitations go out. I know she’ll be there - our families still orbit the same circles. I tell myself I’m prepared.

I’m not.

I see her across the reception hall. Same laugh. Same light. She’s wearing a dress that makes her look like summer itself. She spots me too. For a second we just stare.

Later, outside, it starts to rain. Of course it does. Because apparently the universe enjoys dramatics.

She steps in front of me, arms crossed. “So,” she says, rain dripping off her hair. “Still allergic to feelings?”

I huff a laugh despite myself. “Still allergic to silence?”

She rolls her eyes, but they’re glossy. “You disappeared, Lando.”

“You left first,” I shoot back. “You said I didn’t care.”

“Because you never said you did!”

The rain gets heavier. We’re both getting soaked now. Guests peek through windows, probably thinking this is part of the entertainment.

“I care,” I finally snap, louder than I mean to. “I cared so much it scared the hell out of me, okay? You’re the loudest person I know and somehow you’re the only one who makes it quiet in my head.”

She goes still.

“I missed you,” I add, voice shaking now. “Every summer. Every stupid sunset. I was angry because I -” I drag a hand through my wet hair. “Because I love you. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

There. It’s out. Messy. Angry. Honest.

She stares at me, rain running down her cheeks like tears she doesn’t want to admit to. Then she steps forward. “You idiot,” she whispers.

“I know.”