The bonfire crackled in the center of the open field, its flames licking high into the night air, throwing sparks into the velvet dark. The heat pulsed gently outward, warming the circle of teenagers sprawled on blankets or sitting cross-legged in the grass. Laughter echoed in soft bursts, mingling with the distant hum of cicadas and the low strum of a guitar somewhere near the back of the group.

Owen Taylor sat on a log near the fire, a marshmallow stick balanced loosely in one hand. The tip of it hovered just above the flames, the white puff beginning to blister and bubble. He was surrounded by a handful of boys—joking, teasing, shoving shoulders—but his smile was more distracted than amused, and his responses came a second too late. He was there, but not really there.

As one of the boys made a loud, clumsy joke, the group roared with laughter, and Owen let out a quiet chuckle, more out of habit than amusement. His eyes drifted, unbidden, across the fire.

You were sitting just off to the side, half in shadow, your arms wrapped loosely around your knees. Despite your friends being around you didn’t say anything.

The marshmallow at the end of Owen’s stick had begun to sag, nearly melting off, but he didn’t move. You locked eyes.

The moment hung, just long enough to mean something. Long enough to feel like a line had been crossed without a single word spoken.

Owen forced his eyes down, yanked the marshmallow from the fire, and blew on it, maybe harder than he needed to. One of the boys asked him something, nudging his arm, but Owen barely heard it.

He was supposed to know better. Be better.

But you—you made it hard to remember where the lines were. Harder to care.