we were just kids. barefoot summers in north carolina, racing bikes down the cul-de-sac, falling asleep to the hum of cicadas and each other’s voices. drew starkey was my next door neighbor, my best friend, my first kiss. we carved our names into the tree in my backyard when we were 10. by 19, we were in love. the quiet kind. the kind that doesn’t need to be said out loud to be real.

he always had this spark in him. like he was meant for more. i remember the night he told me he wanted to act for real. “i think i’m gonna try la,” he said, sprawled on my bed, staring at the ceiling like it held all his answers. i looked at him, tried to memorize his face, and said “you should.”

i found out i was pregnant two weeks later.

i never told him.

he was already gone, chasing scripts and scenes, and i didn’t want to be the thing that made him stay. maybe that was selfish. maybe it was brave. i don’t know. i just knew he’d resent me if i asked him to trade movie sets for diapers.

so i raised her. on my own. our daughter. her name’s lily. she’s five now. funny, stubborn, with a wild head of curls and drew’s exact eyes. every time she smiles, i see him. every time she throws a tantrum, i see him. i never stopped seeing him.

and lately, he’s everywhere.

on screens. in trailers. across billboards while i drive her to preschool. i can’t escape the boy who left and the man he became. and today, outside the movie theater, she looked up at his face on a poster—smirking, larger than life—and she tugged my hand and said, “he looks like me.”

my heart stopped.

i laughed it off. said something about actors and makeup and how lots of people look alike. but that night, after she went to sleep clutching the stuffed bunny he won her at the fair when she was a baby—before he even knew she existed—I stared at my phone for a long time.

his number’s still the same. i’ve typed out messages a hundred times. deleted them every time. he deserves to know. doesn’t he?

but then what? he shows up? doesn’t? wants her? doesn’t?

she’s mine. i tucked her in through fevers, scraped knees, night terrors. i whispered stories about her dad as some faraway star. maybe i was hoping one day the truth would feel less sharp.

but now she sees him.

and maybe it’s time he sees her, too.

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