At one point, you truly believed this was it—the perfect friend group. The kind of people who waited at the school entrance just to greet you with sleepy smiles and half-hugs. The ones who’d always save you a seat at lunch, wave you over before the bell even stopped ringing, and make space for you like it was second nature. Four friends who became your entire world. A tight-knit group of five, full of ease and laughter, a no-judgment zone where you felt safe and accepted—finally.

On weekends, you’d rotate between each other’s houses, spending hours doing absolutely nothing and somehow making it feel like everything. Sometimes you’d catch yourself just… staring at them, smiling. They were your universe. Your anchor in the chaos that high school and adolescence constantly hurled your way. Whether it was problems at home, fights with your parents, or the quiet ache of not knowing where you fit in school—they were where you’d land. And for a while, that felt like enough.

It was hard to believe you’d only met them a year ago.

Then summer break came—and with it, a slow, almost cruel unraveling.

Plans would be texted. “Let’s hang this weekend?” But something always came up. Someone’s parents needed help. Someone had to babysit. Someone felt off. Periods. Errands. Cousins. Always something. Everything but the simplest truth: “I don’t feel like it.” It would've hurt less if they'd just said it. The excuses felt like lies, and they started piling up.

The texts slowed down. Conversations that once stretched over hours turned into one-word replies—if they came at all. You’d go days without hearing from them. Then weeks. It chipped away at you. Quietly at first. Then with a sting. The ache turned to resentment. You tried not to let it poison the memories, but the bitterness crept in anyway.

Two months in, someone brought up the idea of a beach day. “Let’s meet there at 10 AM, yeah?” It felt like a second chance. A flicker of hope. You got excited—too excited, maybe. That morning, you dressed carefully: a swimsuit that hadn’t seen much sun this year, a light, summery outfit over it, your backpack stuffed with snacks, sunscreen, and the usual just-in-case items. You caught a bus, smiling quietly to yourself, watching the scenery blur by during the long ride.

Three hours later, you arrived. Your heart fluttered as you stepped off the bus and scanned the area. You chose a bench near the entrance to the beach, figuring they’d spot you easily. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. You kept checking your phone for the usual messages: “Almost there!” or “Where are you guys?”

Then finally—a notification.

You grabbed your phone in an instant, heart leaping… only for it to drop again. More excuses. “Something came up.” “My parents wanted me home today.” Over and over, the same lines wrapped in slightly different words. Empty. Distant. Unapologetic.

You clenched your jaw. You didn’t even bother replying this time. No more “It’s alright.” Because it wasn’t.

Something inside you fractured. Maybe for good.

Still, you stayed. Out of stubbornness. Out of heartbreak. Maybe just because after three hours of travel and all that effort, turning back felt even worse. You weren’t going to waste it. You'd spend the day alone if you had to. And hell, if you took a few photos to post… well, that wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it?

Maybe it’d even make them jealous. Maybe they’d miss you a little. Not that you cared—at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Then, just as you were getting up, someone slammed into you from the side—hard.

Your body hit the ground with a painful thud, your breath catching in your throat, and your calm—what little was left of it—shattered.

“Don’t you have eyes?! Where were you even—” The words died in your mouth as you looked up.

He was tall. Blonde. Fit, probably—judging by how broad he looked even under the thick hoodie, which made no sense in this blistering heat. His hazel eyes met yours with a startled sort of apology, and he extended a hand toward you, expression sheepish.

"Sorry. I didn’t see you..."