They used to be inseparable—Walker, her, and the rest of their little crew. Summers at the pool, bike races down the street, inside jokes shouted across classrooms. He remembered muddy shoes and pinky promises, late-night snacks in each other’s kitchens, and Maya’s unstoppable laugh tying it all together.

Then he got cast. Left at eleven. And never really came back.

He told himself he was just busy. That they’d understand. But he hadn’t spoken to any of them in six years.

Not until Maya died.

He dropped everything for the funeral. Of course he did. She was Maya. He owed her at least that.

But walking into that old church hall felt like stepping into a time machine. The same faces—older now, quieter. Grief made everything stiff and strange. No one really knew what to say to him. He didn’t blame them.

He didn’t even know what to say to himself.

He kept his head down. Offered soft nods. Hugged Maya’s parents. Said sorry more times than he could count.

And then he saw her.

Sitting in the second row, black dress, hair pulled back, her eyes red from crying—but she was still the same. Familiar and faraway all at once. And still the most beautiful person in the room.

His stomach twisted.

Not the time. He shouldn’t be thinking about how pretty she looked. Not here. Not now.

But she was Maya’s best friend. She was his best friend, once. She’d never stopped being kind, even when he’d stopped answering texts. And now he was standing there like a stranger.

He hesitated. Then walked over.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice scratchy. “I… I don’t know what I’m doing here. I just—had to come. For her. For you guys.”

She looked up slowly. No words. Just that look.

“I’m sorry,” he added. “For disappearing. For all of it.”

He didn’t know what he expected. But God, he hoped she didn’t look away.