Sophie, Present Day
Sophie told herself it wasn't a crush.
Crushes were for people with time. For girls with lungs that didn't burn after one flight of stairs and hearts that didn't sound like they were fighting themselves every night.
No — she didn't have time for crushes. She had short-term dreams, medical appointments, and a hundred unread letters to her future self. There was no space in her life for feelings.
Except somehow… James kept making room.
---
She saw him again the next Sunday.
Same bench. Same willow. Same dark clothes that somehow never looked repetitive. This time he brought almond croissants with their coffee.
"I figured if you're going to make me sit in a cemetery again," he said, "the least I can do is bribe you with sugar."
Sophie grinned, shaking her head. "You're learning."
They sat together as they always did — just close enough to share warmth, just far enough to avoid questions. But Sophie felt the difference in the air. A tension, soft and silent, humming just under the skin.
She liked being near him.
She liked how quiet felt safe beside him.
She liked the way he listened — not to reply, but to understand.
---
"So," she said between bites, "you said last time you don't fit in the world. Still true?"
James nodded slowly. "More than ever."
"Why?"
He paused. Then: "Because I haven't changed in a long time."
Sophie gave a short laugh. "Tell me about it. Emotionally, I peaked at twelve."
"I mean it literally," he said, eyes not on her but on the horizon. "Time doesn't move the same for me."
Sophie leaned back, crossing her arms. "You know, you keep dropping these dramatic cryptic lines, and if I were any other girl, I'd probably think you were crazy."
"And you don't?"
"I do," she said, smirking. "But you're the kind of crazy I want to sit next to on Sundays."
That made him smile. It was small, and it didn't last long, but it lit something in her.
God, he was beautiful when he smiled.
---
She didn't know why she kept coming back.
It wasn't just the coffee, or the conversation, or the way he made her feel like her condition wasn't a cage. It was something else. Something harder to name.
Like the stillness in him made her racing clock slow down. Like time bent when she was near him. Like maybe, just maybe, this connection didn't care about expiration dates.
---
"You ever think about the end?" she asked, quiet now.
James turned to her. "The end of what?"
"Of things. Life. Love. The stuff we can't keep."
He looked at her for a long time before answering.
"I think about the weight of endings. How heavy they are. How some people carry them longer than they ever held the beginning."
Sophie swallowed. "That sounds like experience talking."
James didn't reply.
She didn't push.
---
When the sun dipped low, and the light turned gold and soft, Sophie gathered her notebook and tucked her pen behind her ear. She hesitated.
"I wrote about you, you know," she said suddenly.
He looked surprised. "You did?"
"Yeah. In my letters. The ones I don't show anyone."
"What did you say?"
"That you remind me of a full stop at the end of a really good sentence."
James raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm the end?"
She shrugged. "You're quiet. Still. Final."
He looked down. "Maybe I'm a comma."
Sophie smiled. "That sounds like hope."
"I'm not sure I deserve that."
"Let me decide."
---
As she walked away, she realized she was smiling.
And when she touched her chest — the place that so often ached — she felt something unfamiliar:
Warmth.
Not healing.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But something that whispered: Maybe it's okay to want something. Even now.
Even if that something was James.
---