Chapter Two — The Space Between Us
Lyra's POV
Evan came back on a Tuesday.
The halls were half-asleep from the morning heat, lockers clanging open like old memories, and I was halfway through a lukewarm coffee when I saw him.
Same grin. Same dark hair curling at the edge of his hoodie. The only difference was the duffel bag slung over his shoulder — and the faint tan from wherever football tournaments took him this time.
"Sol."
My name, the way only he says it. Like it's a promise.
I barely had time to breathe before his arms were around me, the scent of rain and grass and home flooding back. I hated how easily my body remembered where to fit against his.
"You didn't call last night," he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
"I tried. You were probably winning trophies."
He chuckled. "Maybe. But I would've rather heard your voice."
I smiled, and the star on my necklace brushed against his collarbone. He noticed. He always did.
"You still wear it," he said softly.
"Every day."
"You're going to make me cocky."
"You already are."
He laughed, the kind that made me forget every ache that ever lived in my chest. Around us, the hallway kept moving — people shouting, lockers slamming — but for a few seconds, it felt like freshman year again. When everything was simple and the future still felt far away.
We walked to homeroom together. His hand found mine, fingers brushing, unsure for a heartbeat — then sure again.
He told me about the trip, the win, the coach's endless pep talks. I told him about Aveline's obsession with planning the senior bonfire and how Soraya nearly set the toaster on fire last weekend.
He laughed again, shaking his head. "Nothing changes here."
"Maybe that's the problem," I said, half-joking. But something in me meant it.
He looked at me for a long moment, like he wanted to ask what I meant — but the bell cut him off.
Later that day, we sat outside under the oak tree near the field, the one everyone called our spot. The sun filtered through the leaves, dappling gold on his cheekbones. He was quiet for once.
"What's on your mind?" I asked.
He exhaled. "Just thinking how weird it is — last year, last season, last everything. Feels like we blinked and time skipped ahead."
"Yeah," I said, twisting the star pendant between my fingers. "Feels like we're trying to hold on to something that keeps slipping away."
He leaned closer. "Then let's not let it slip."
I looked at him — the boy who once asked to take care of my heart, the one who still somehow does — and smiled. "You say that like it's easy."
"It's not. But it's worth it."
And in that moment, I almost believed him.