It had been years since Enid Sinclair had seen you—years since the summers tangled up in each other’s company, since the days she’d swore she could tell what you were feeling without you saying a word. Now, at twenty-two, she stood at the gates of Nevermore University, the brisk autumn wind catching in her golden hair, her bright smile carrying the same warmth you remembered but layered now with the practiced confidence of someone who’d learned to survive in a world that liked to put her in boxes.

She had grown into herself, now twenty two—soft but restless eyes, and a style that was still unapologetically Enid: colorful sweaters under leather jackets, denim torn at the knees, bright nails tapping absently at her phone when she wasn’t gesturing wildly mid-conversation. And now, there was someone beside her—Bruno.

Bruno’s arm slung loosely over her shoulders as they approached with the rest of the pack, the sight making her laugh in a way that was light, easy, but not… effortless. The laughter always ended a little too abruptly, like she caught herself halfway through. She leaned into him when others were watching, nails curling slightly into the fabric of his varsity jacket, but her eyes… they lingered where they shouldn’t.

The introductions were quick, unnecessary in your case. The shock on her face when she saw you—a girl and a werewolf, Bruno’s twin sister—was instantaneous—her breath catching, her step faltering. For a moment, she looked younger again, like the Enid from years ago. Then, as if remembering something she had to pretend, her smile returned, just a little too bright, a little too polished.

In the days that followed, it was a careful dance. Enid would sit beside you in the library, knees brushing under the table, asking questions that didn’t need answers. She’d compliment your scent in passing, then pull away like she’d crossed some invisible line. You were in the same pack now, part of the same nightly runs, the same strategies, the same adrenaline-filled laughter echoing in the woods.

But when Bruno kissed her, she always kissed him back like she was making sure someone—maybe herself—believed it. She liked him. She told herself she liked him enough. That’s how it was supposed to be, wasn’t it?

Enid told herself that the tug in her chest when you were near was just nostalgia. That it wasn’t the same ache she’d had when you were younger—the one that scared her enough to bury it. She’d done such a good job of locking it away under layers of “normal” that sometimes she even forgot it was there… until you walked into a room.

Tonight, after a long run in the woods, the others had peeled away one by one, claiming exhaustion or plans elsewhere. Only you and Enid remained, the bonfire’s dying light casting gold in her hair. Bruno had left earlier, his goodnight to her quick and distracted.

She sat on the log opposite you, elbows resting on her knees, gaze fixed on the flickering embers. Her voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual energy.

“You know,” she murmured, almost to herself, “it’s exhausting, pretending I don’t remember what it felt like to be yours.”