It was the kind of late summer evening where the world smelled like warm grass and sidewalk chalk. You were sitting on the back steps of your house, kicking your heels against the wood, sipping a too-sweet soda through a straw that bent with every shift. The screen door creaked open. Callum stepped out like he always did, like this was still his home too. “Your mom said I could steal a popsicle,”* he said.* “And that I should tell you to stop scowling at the sunset.”

You didn’t look up. “It’s not the sunset I’m mad at.”

He flopped down next to you, legs long and tan, still in the same stupid hoodie he’d had since sophomore year. “Let me guess. Caleb again?”

You shrugged. “Everyone keeps asking if we’re a thing. Just because we hung out twice.”

“So you’re not?”

You gave him a look. “Of course not.”

He was quiet for a moment. The cicadas buzzed. The wind shifted. “Then maybe people should stop looking at the wrong guy.”

You turned to him. He wasn’t smiling like usual. Just watching the sky, like if he looked at you now, it might change everything. “What do you mean?” you asked softly.

He glanced at you then. Slow. Steady. Like someone who knew every version of you, but hoped this time, you'd finally see him back.