Epilogue — One Year Later
If you told me a year ago that I'd be standing here under this oak tree again, I wouldn't have believed you.
Back then, I didn't even know what this tree meant. It was just a meeting spot, a piece of campus scenery, a backdrop for coffee cups and hurried conversations between classes.
Now, it's ours.
The little wooden sign Dave hung from the branch last year is still there. The paint is faded, and the edges are fraying from months of rain and winter wind, but you can still read the words:
When your name found mine.
I run my fingers over the letters, tracing the grooves, remembering the day he gave it to me. That was the day everything felt… certain. Like we'd finally stepped out of the storm.
Dave stands behind me, his arms circling my waist, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder. "Still holding up," he says.
"The sign or us?" I tease.
He laughs against my ear. "Both."
---
Campus looks different this year. Maybe it's me who's different.
Last year, I was still figuring out where I fit in — with classes, with people, with him. Now, I know my favorite study spot in the library, which professors will give extensions, which campus cafés have the best coffee for all-nighters.
And with Dave? We've gone from late-night study sessions to sharing breakfasts before morning lectures, from cautious hand-holding to knowing each other's silences.
---
Jenna comes jogging across the quad toward us, waving like she's trying to land a plane.
"Thought I'd find you two here," she says, slightly out of breath. "Guess what? The Campus Confessions page is officially shut down. Admin finally did it."
"No more drama posts?" I say, pretending to be shocked.
"Exactly. What are people going to do now? Actually talk to each other?" Jenna grins. "Also, side note, I still ship you two."
Dave chuckles. "Glad we have your blessing."
"Always," she says, and I can tell she means it.
---
After Jenna leaves, we stroll toward the student center. It's the same path we took the day the rumors broke — only this time, there's no tightness in my chest, no whispering behind my back. Just a clear, crisp afternoon and the sound of leaves crunching under our shoes.
Halfway there, we pass Maya.
It's not dramatic. No cold stares or pointed comments. She gives me a small nod — not quite a smile, but not unfriendly — and keeps walking.
I watch her go, realizing I don't feel anger anymore. Just… closure.
---
Inside the student center, the air smells faintly of cinnamon from the café downstairs. Dave and I grab two mugs of hot chocolate and sit by the big window overlooking the quad. Students pass by, bundled in coats, their conversations blending into a background hum.
"I was thinking," Dave says, stirring his drink, "we should make a tradition. Every year, after finals, we meet under the oak tree."
I smile. "Even after we graduate?"
"Especially after we graduate."
---
The afternoon light slants through the window, catching in his hair. I watch him as he talks about summer plans, internships, and maybe getting a tiny apartment off-campus next year. He doesn't know I'm barely listening, too busy memorizing the way he looks in this exact moment.
Because someday, years from now, I want to remember this — the feeling of sitting across from him when everything in our lives still feels wide open.
---
Finals week comes and goes in a blur of coffee cups, flashcards, and whispered encouragements. We both pass our exams, and the relief is almost euphoric.
On the last day before winter break, we meet at the oak tree again. The campus is quieter now, most students already gone. Snow clings to the branches, making the old wooden sign look like it's wearing a frost crown.
"I almost didn't come here last year," I admit. "After everything that happened, I wasn't sure I wanted to remember."
He slips his hand into mine. "I'm glad you did."
---
We sit on the bench under the tree, our breath visible in the cold air. He pulls a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and hands it to me.
Inside is a photo — the two of us from last spring, taken by Jenna without us noticing. We're sitting here, laughing at something, completely unaware of the camera.
"Thought you might want proof," he says, "that we've been happy longer than we realized."
I laugh, but there's a lump in my throat. "Thank you."
---
The sun dips lower, and the campus lights flicker on, casting a warm glow against the snow.
"Next year," he says, "we hang a second sign. Right under the first one. Something new."
"What would it say?" I ask.
He grins. "We'll figure it out. Maybe after the rest of our story happens."
I lean against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "Our story's already happening."
---
We stay there until the cold seeps into our bones, talking about the year ahead — classes, weekend trips, little promises that sound ordinary but feel like everything.
When we finally stand to leave, I look back once at the sign swaying gently in the wind.
A year ago, it was just a piece of painted wood. Now, it's a reminder that we weathered the worst and found something worth holding onto.
And I know that next year, and the year after that, I'll be back here — tracing the letters, remembering how my name found his.