Chapter Nine: The Return
Writer's POV - Age 14
Spring came, and with it, Evan Harlow returned to school.
Fabiola saw him first period on a Monday morning in April. She walked into class and there he was sitting at their shared desk like he'd never left, like five months hadn't passed, like the world hadn't stopped and restarted in his absence.
Her heart lurched.
He looked different. Taller, though that seemed impossible in just five months. Thinner, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut. His black hair had grown longer, falling into his eyes. His skin was paler than she remembered, almost translucent in the fluorescent lights.
But his eyes those storm-gray eyes were the same.
Empty. Haunted. Old.
Fabiola's feet carried her forward before her brain caught up. She slid into her seat beside him, her hands shaking.
"Hi," she whispered.
Evan didn't look at her. Didn't acknowledge her at all. He stared straight ahead, hands folded on the desk, so still he could have been a photograph.
"Evan," she tried again. "I'm glad you're back."
Nothing.
Around them, other students filed in, whispering. Staring. The boy whose brother drowned was back. The freak. The tragedy.
Mrs. Patterson started class, and Fabiola tried to focus on algebra, but all she could think about was the boy beside her.
The boy who smelled faintly of cold water and something else. Something darker.
Winter, she thought. He smells like winter.
At lunch, Fabiola watched Evan from across the cafeteria.
He sat alone in the far corner, a tray of untouched food in front of him. He didn't eat. Didn't move. Just sat there like a ghost himself.
Amy nudged her. "You gonna talk to him?"
"I tried. He won't respond."
"Maybe he's not ready."
"It's been five months, Amy."
"His brother died, Fab. Give him time."
But Fabiola was out of patience for time. She'd waited. Written letters. Worried herself sick.
And now he was here, three feet away and a million miles distant.
She stood up.
"Fabiola..." Amy warned.
But Fabiola was already walking across the cafeteria, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the way conversations stopped as she passed.
She reached Evan's table and sat down across from him without asking.
"You're back," she said.
He didn't look up.
"I wrote you letters. Fourteen of them. I was going to mail them but I didn't know if you'd want.."
"Stop." His voice was rough from disuse. Raw.
Fabiola's throat tightened. "Evan..."
"I don't want your letters. I don't want your pity. I don't want..." He finally looked up, and the pain in his eyes stole her breath. "I don't want you to look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm broken. Like I'm something you can fix."
"I don't think you're broken.."
"I am broken." His voice was flat. Final. "And you need to stay away from me, Fabiola. Far away. Because I'm not... I'm not safe anymore."
"You've never been safe," she said softly. "You've always been sad and strange and distant. And I've never cared."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise. Then pain.
"You should care."
"Well, I don't."
Evan's jaw clenched. "Then you're stupid."
The word hit like a slap. Fabiola felt tears prick her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
"Fine," she said, standing. "Be alone, then. Push everyone away. I'm sure that'll make everything better."
She walked away before he could see her cry.
That afternoon, Fabiola found a note in her locker.
Folded paper, no name on the outside. Her hands shook as she opened it.
I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you stupid. You're the opposite of stupid.
But I meant what I said. Stay away from me. Please.
There's something wrong with me. Something that started before Lucas died and got worse after. I can't explain it. But I can feel itsomething dark inside me, watching, waiting.
If you get close, it'll touch you too.
I can't let that happen.
E.
Fabiola read it three times.
Then she pulled out a pen and wrote on the back.
I don't care what's wrong with you.
I'm not going anywhere.
F.
She folded it and slipped it through the vent in Evan's locker.
The next morning, there was another note in her locker.
You're the most stubborn person I've ever met.
Fine. You want to be my friend? Then know this.
I see things that aren't there. Hear voices. Feel cold when I shouldn't. Sometimes I forget where I am or what I'm doing.
My mother thinks I'm losing my mind. My father doesn't look at me anymore.
And I... I miss Lucas so much it feels like I'm dying.
Still want to be friends?
E.
Fabiola didn't hesitate. She wrote back immediately:
Yes.
Always yes.
F.
They fell into a strange rhythm after that.
Notes passed through locker vents. Careful distance maintained in class. Silent acknowledgment in hallways.
Evan never ate with her. Never spoke to her in front of others.
But the notes kept coming.
I dreamed about the lake again. About drowning. I wake up and I can't breathe.
I'm sorry you have nightmares. I dream about you sometimes. That you smile. That you're happy.
I don't remember how to be happy.
Then I'll remember for both of us.
Week by week, the notes got longer. More honest. More raw.
And slowly so slowly Fabiola almost didn't notice Evan started to thaw.
He still didn't smile. Still didn't touch her.
But he stopped telling her to leave.
And one day, in late May, as they passed in the hallway, he stopped.
Turned.
Looked at her with those devastating gray eyes.
And whispered two words:
"Thank you."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd.
But Fabiola stood there, heart racing, those two words echoing in her head.
Thank you.
It wasn't I love you.
It wasn't even I like you.
But it was something.
It was hope.
And for now, that was enough.
That night, Fabiola pulled out all fourteen unsent letters and reread them.
Evidence of her stubborn, ridiculous, wonderful persistence.
Evidence that some people were worth waiting for.
Evidence that Evan Harlow broken, haunted, impossible Evan Harlow was hers to keep trying for.
Even if he didn't know it yet.
She smiled, folded the letters carefully, and tucked them back in her drawer.
Someday, she'd give them to him.
Someday, when he was ready.
For now, she'd keep writing.
Keep waiting.
Keep believing that the boy who smelled like winter could learn to feel warmth again.
And maybe just maybe that warmth would be her.