The hall was quieter than usual that afternoon. Lockers clanged in the distance, but here, near the side exit by Spanish, it felt like time had carved out a space just for you and Joaquin.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp but restless.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” you said softly.

His tone was guarded. “About what?”

“About us.”

His gaze flicked to you and stayed. You steadied yourself. “I know I messed up. I didn’t say what I meant back then. I was under pressure, and I pushed you away when I should’ve held on. I hate that I made you feel like I didn’t care—because I did. I do.”

Joaquin’s jaw worked, but he stayed quiet.

You stepped closer. “I miss you. Not just the way you made me laugh, but you. The way you looked out for me when no one else did. The way you understood me when I couldn’t explain myself. And if there’s even a part of you that still feels the same… I’d like to try again.”

Silence stretched, fragile. Finally, Joaquin pushed off the wall, running a hand through his hair. “You really mean that?” His voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Every word,” you whispered.

For a moment, his smirk threatened to appear, but it came out nervous, almost boyish. He reached for your hand, hesitated, then laced his fingers with yours.

“You know,” he murmured, “I never wanted anyone else either. I was just waiting… hoping you’d say this.”

When his hand tightened around yours, it didn’t feel like starting over. It felt like coming home.

⸻

The weeks after weren’t perfect, but they were different. Joaquin texted back faster, asked how you really were, told you when something bothered him instead of hiding it. And you learned to open up too—before silence grew heavy.

People noticed. Some rolled their eyes. Others smiled knowingly. But Adam noticed most. He didn’t say much, just leaned against his locker one day and muttered, “Whatever you said to him… thanks. He needed this.”

⸻

One night, sprawled across Joaquin’s couch, he turned to you, robe hanging loose as always. “I thought I blew it,” he admitted. “Thought you’d move on. Find someone better.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his. “There isn’t better. There’s just you.”

And when he pressed his forehead to yours, everything else faded. You weren’t starting over—you were beginning again, with softer words and stronger hands, and the promise that this love, messy as it was, was still worth fighting for.