The June bonfire blazed like a second sun, turning everyone around it into shadows and silhouettes. Music thumped from someone's Bluetooth speaker half-buried in the sand, and laughter echoed across the beach like it belonged to someone else's life.
Mine felt paused — stuck between the past and whatever came next.
Liam took another step toward me. Then another. Until it was impossible to pretend I didn't see him.
I glanced at Maya.
"I'll be right here," she said, firm but soft.
I nodded, then peeled myself away from the warmth of the fire and walked toward Liam, the sand cool beneath my sneakers. We met somewhere between the flickering orange and the navy blue of the night. Close enough to see each other clearly. Not close enough to forget what had happened.
"Hey," he said, voice careful.
"Hey," I replied, equally cautious.
He rubbed the back of his neck — same nervous habit as always. "You look… different."
I raised an eyebrow. "That's either a compliment or a crime."
He smiled faintly. "A compliment. You just… seem older. Not like, wrinkly or anything. Just… older."
I folded my arms. "You texted me. And then vanished again. So, why now, Liam?"
He paused, eyes scanning the ground between us. "I didn't know if I should say anything. But when I saw you post that poem… the one about the 'ghost that still opens the window at night' — I just— I knew it was about us."
I stiffened. That poem was never meant for public decoding.
"I wasn't trying to say anything with it. I write what I feel," I said flatly.
"I know," he nodded. "That's kind of the point."
Silence.
Then he finally looked at me, properly.
"I'm leaving," he said. "My mom got a job in Atlanta. We move next month. I guess I didn't want to leave without… trying to fix things. Or at least understand what we were — what we still are."
My throat tightened. "We were two people who cared about each other, and then you stopped texting. You pulled away. No fight. No reason. You just left."
"I know," he said quickly. "And I hated myself for it. But things were bad then — my dad had just moved out, I was trying to hold it together for my little sister, and I didn't know how to talk to anyone, not even you. So I just… shut off."
I looked at him, really looked. His voice cracked in places. His eyes darted like he was scared of being honest.
"That's not fair," I said, voice quieter now. "I would've listened. I wanted to listen."
He nodded, shame written all over his face. "I know. And I'm sorry."
Another beat of silence passed. The wind shifted. Someone popped open a soda in the distance.
I crossed my arms tighter. "So what now? You just wanted to explain before disappearing again?"
"No," he said, stepping closer. "I don't want to disappear. I want to start again. Maybe slowly. Maybe just as… I don't know. Friends? Something real. No pressure. I just want to mean something to you again."
I stared at him, the firelight flickering across his face. It felt like standing at the edge of a dock and not knowing if the water was safe to jump into.
"I don't know if I can trust you yet," I said honestly. "But I'm glad you told me."
He nodded. "That's enough for tonight."
We stood there a little longer. Not talking. Just watching the fire. It didn't burn any less bright, but it felt different now — softer. Less wild.
"I'll let you get back," Liam said finally. "To Maya. And Rey. They're good people."
"Yeah," I smiled faintly. "They are."
He hesitated. "Zoey?"
"Yeah?"
"I still remember the poem you wrote in eighth grade. The one about the paper lanterns and how we're all just trying not to float away. I think about it a lot."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded and walked away.
Back to Maya. Back to now.
June 14
Fire doesn't ask
if you're ready to be warm again.
It just burns.
And sometimes the people you thought were gone
show up with old flames
and new apologies.
But that doesn't mean you hand them the match.
It means you stand a little closer
to the light you built on your own