Hannah had always thought of herself as composed.
It was a point of pride — to stay calm when others unraveled, to listen when everyone else talked. She was the one people came to for steady ground.
But ever since that afternoon at Emma's, the ground hadn't felt steady at all.
The memory lingered like the echo of a song: the sound of rain against the windows, the way Emma had said you don't strike me as someone who hides forever.
Hannah hadn't realized how much she'd wanted someone to see her that way — not as careful or dependable, but as brave.
Now, sitting at her desk at the high school, surrounded by the faint smell of paper and old coffee, she found herself staring out the window instead of working through the stack of student reports. Her mind kept drifting back to Emma — her voice, her easy laugh, the quiet boldness in her eyes.
A knock at the door startled her.
"Come in," she said quickly, closing the folder in front of her.
It was her friend and colleague, Lydia Carter, the school librarian — sharp-eyed, endlessly kind, and one of the few people Hannah trusted completely.
"You look miles away," Lydia said, leaning against the doorframe. "And don't tell me it's the budget reports again."
Hannah smiled weakly. "Just thinking. Long week."
Lydia gave her a knowing look. "Thinking about the artist who came back to town?"
Hannah's breath caught. "What makes you say that?"
"Because you get that look," Lydia said, stepping inside. "The one you used to have when you were twenty and didn't know whether to follow your heart or run from it."
Hannah let out a shaky laugh. "I didn't think I was that obvious."
"You're not to most people," Lydia said gently. "But I've seen this before. Someone new — or in this case, someone old — stirs up what you've buried. You start remembering what it feels like to want something."
Hannah stared down at her hands. "It's complicated."
"It always is," Lydia said. "But you're allowed to feel what you feel. Even here."
Hannah looked up. "You think the town would understand?"
Lydia tilted her head. "Maybe not. But understanding isn't the same as approval. And you've spent your whole life earning approval."
The words hit harder than Hannah expected. She looked away, out at the gray sky beyond the window. "It's not just that," she said quietly. "It's her. Emma. She's… different. She makes me want to say things I shouldn't."
Lydia smiled softly. "Maybe that's exactly what you need."
Before Hannah could answer, the final bell rang, breaking the moment. Lydia squeezed her shoulder before leaving, her expression kind but serious.
When the school emptied, Hannah stayed behind, gathering her things slowly. She told herself she wasn't going to see Emma again — not tonight, not for a while. Distance was safer.
But when she drove home, her car seemed to take the long route — the one that passed by the cliffs, where the ocean spread out in restless gray beneath the clouds.
And there, by the railing, was Emma. Sketchbook open, hair whipping in the wind.
Hannah pulled over before she could think better of it. For a long moment, she just sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering.
She could leave. Pretend she hadn't seen her.
Or she could get out of the car.
The rain began to fall again — soft and unthreatening this time. Hannah took a breath, opened the door, and stepped out.
Emma turned at the sound, surprise flickering into a smile.
"Hey," she called. "Didn't expect to see you out here."
Hannah stood beside her, looking out at the sea. "I could say the same."
They didn't say much after that. The silence between them wasn't empty — it was full, alive, like the air before a storm.
For once, Hannah didn't fight it. She just stood there, shoulder to shoulder with Emma, letting the rain wash over them both.
And for the first time in years, she didn't feel like she had to be composed.