You and Malachi had been inseparable as kids. He was the boy you’d race down the playground with, the one who dared you to jump off the swings, the one who always saved you a seat in the cafeteria. Then, in 2015, everything changed. His acting career took off, and just like that, he moved away. You hadn’t seen him since.

Over the years, his name popped up on your TV screen now and then. A guest role here, a supporting part there. You’d catch glimpses of his face—older, sharper, more confident—but it always felt distant, like a life you were no longer part of. You hadn’t spoken since the day he left.

Rumors had been floating around for weeks. Your friends whispered about a new kid joining after summer break, but you didn’t think much of it. New kids came and went all the time.

The first morning back, you met your friends in your usual hallway spot—a battered bench that could barely fit four people if you squeezed in. You laughed about schedules, traded complaints about early mornings, and idly watched students stream through the double doors.

Then you saw him.

Tall, with messy brunette hair that caught a faint reddish glow under the lights. Loose, baggy jeans hung low on his hips, held in place by a worn leather belt. His hoodie—plain grey—looked soft and well-loved, slouched casually over his frame. He carried himself with a quiet ease, but the second his brown eyes swept over the hall, your breath caught.

It was Malachi.

Nine years had changed him, given him sharper edges, a confidence that hadn’t been there before. And if you were being honest, you’d changed too.

Your friends, who’d never known him, were already whispering and giggling. You just sat there, frozen, heart pounding, wondering if he’d recognize you.