The bus ride home was long and quiet. Most students had already gone home, leaving only a handful of passengers scattered across the worn seats. An elderly woman clutched her shopping bags near the front. A businessman in a rumpled suit dozed against the window, his briefcase balanced precariously on his lap. A middle-schooler with headphones bobbed his head to music I couldn't hear.
I sat near the back, staring out at the gray evening outside. The sky had darkened even further, the clouds hanging so low it felt like I could reach up and touch them. The world felt strangely hushed, as if someone had turned down the volume on reality itself. Even the usual sounds of traffic and city life seemed muffled, distant.
Something's off about today.
I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. Just a feeling, really—a prickling at the back of my neck that told me something wasn't right. The air had that electric quality to it, the kind that made your hair stand on end before lightning struck.
Probably just the weather, I told myself, though the reassurance felt hollow.
When I finally got off at the entrance to Maplewood Apartments, the sky had taken on an almost greenish tinge, the kind that preceded severe storms. The streetlights had already flickered on, casting pools of yellow light that did little to dispel the gloom. I immediately spotted her.
Standing near the gate, her figure slim against the fading light, was a girl whose beauty seemed to glow even in the gloom. Her hair, a silky chestnut brown, cascaded to her shoulders in waves that caught what little light remained. She was wearing her school uniform—the crisp white blouse and navy blazer of Westbridge Academy, with its distinctive silver crest embroidered on the breast pocket. Her silver-gray eyes shimmered when they found me, and even from a distance, I could see the smile that spread across her face.
Emily.
My heart did that stupid flutter it always did when I saw her, even after all this time. You'd think I'd be used to it by now—used to the way she made the whole world seem brighter just by existing in it—but every time felt like the first time all over again.
"Emily!"
I jogged over, my backpack bouncing against my spine with each step, and quickly clasped her hand in mine. Her fingers were cold, icy against my skin despite the jacket she was wearing.
How long has she been waiting out here?
"Jeez," I muttered, breathing into my palms to warm them before cupping her hand gently, trying to transfer some of my body heat to her frozen fingers. "What's with this weather? It's freezing."
It really was unusually cold for October in California. We were supposed to be enjoying mild autumn temperatures, not this biting chill that felt more like late December. I could see my breath misting in the air between us, something that shouldn't have been possible this early in the season.
Her lips curved into a smile, delicate and radiant, even as she shook her head. "I wanted to see you sooner," she said softly, her voice carrying that musical quality that never failed to make my chest tighten.
God, how did I get so lucky?
That was Emily Carter—Riverside High's school sweetheart, though many simply called her the school's "queen." Not that she attended Riverside, of course. She went to Westbridge Academy, a private prep school on the wealthier side of town, where most of the students were children of CEOs, politicians, or old money families who could trace their lineage back to the founding of California itself. The tuition alone was more than my parents made in a year, and the campus looked more like a college than a high school, complete with marble columns and manicured lawns that probably cost more to maintain than our entire apartment building.
Despite being surrounded by beauty and privilege—by girls who wore designer clothes as casually as I wore jeans, by boys who drove cars worth more than most people's houses—Emily was the one everyone adored. She was kind without being condescending, beautiful without being vain, smart without being arrogant. She volunteered at the local animal shelter on weekends, tutored younger students for free, and always had a smile ready for anyone who needed one.
And somehow, impossibly, she was my girlfriend.
We had first met back in middle school, before the social stratification of high school had sorted us into different worlds. She had been the star pianist of our district, her performances so hauntingly beautiful that people would weep listening to her play Chopin. I had won a guitar competition that same year—nothing as prestigious as what she'd accomplished, but enough to get some local recognition. A school showcase had put us on stage together, pianist and guitarist performing a duet arrangement of "Canon in D" that had earned us a standing ovation.
Afterward, we just… kept crossing paths. At competitions, at community events, at the music store downtown where we both went to browse sheet music and dream about the instruments we couldn't afford. We'd started as friends, bonding over our shared love of music and our mutual confusion about algebra homework. By freshman year, I'd worked up the courage to confess my feelings during a summer festival, the fireworks exploding overhead as I stumbled through the most awkward declaration of love in human history.
She'd said yes. Somehow, miraculously, she'd said yes.
Different schools meant less time together—our schedules rarely aligned, and the distance between Riverside and Westbridge was just far enough to make spontaneous visits impossible. But that only made the moments we shared even more precious. Every text message, every phone call, every stolen afternoon like this one—they all mattered more because we knew how easily they could slip away.
"It's cold, dummy," Emily teased, her voice like a soft bell. She scrunched her nose when I tapped it playfully, the way I always did—a gesture that had become our own private ritual, something that belonged only to us.
Her laughter drew curious glances from people passing by. A couple walking their dog—a golden retriever that strained at its leash, eager to investigate this new source of joy—actually stopped mid-step, staring at us with undisguised curiosity.
"Who's that girl? She looks like a movie star…" the woman whispered to her partner, though not quietly enough to avoid being overheard.
"She's too young to be an actress, right? Isn't that a school uniform?" the man replied, squinting at Emily's blazer as if trying to place which film he might have seen her in.
I couldn't help but smirk proudly, squeezing Emily's hand tighter. Yeah, that's right. Look all you want, but she's taken.
"She's mine," I whispered under my breath, though only to myself. Emily didn't need to hear it—she already knew. But sometimes I just needed to say it out loud, to remind myself that this wasn't a dream I'd wake up from.
"Come on, let's head home."