"We'll meet again when the chapters of our lives are ready to be written together." ~ Unknown
Sophia and Michael exchanged positions the moment the path between sandbags cleared. Michael moved forward with the ease, his paintball gun balanced against his shoulder, his steps silent on the gravel.
The opposing team had clustered their weaker players at the back, thinking they'd be safe behind the front line. But in their excitement, they kept leaning out, shifting too far from cover. Michael watched patiently, and each time an elbow or shoulder appeared, he fired. One by one, they dropped.
When the front line turned their attention to him, he didn't waste shots. He waited. The other team fired wildly, trying to pin him down, their ammunition dwindling with every burst. Sophia and the others provided cover fire, drawing their attention, and Michael moved through the gaps he'd been tracking from the start.
He took out the first of the front line with a shot to the chest, then the second with a clean hit to the arm. The last two were good, they held their positions, conserved their ammo, and forced Michael to work for every angle. He signalled to his team, a quick hand motion, and they shifted, creating a distraction. While the remaining opponents focused on the noise, Michael circled through a blind spot he'd spotted earlier. He rose from behind a low wall and fired twice. Both shots landed.
The match ended. His team erupted into cheers. Sophia clapped him on the shoulder, a new respect in her eyes. Selina was smiling from behind a barrel, not surprised, she had already learned that Michael was full of quiet talents, the kind that emerged only when needed.
On the van ride to the snow park, most of the group crammed together in the front and middle rows, still buzzing from the paintball victory. Selina made her way to the back, where the last row sat empty except for Michael by the window.
She slid in beside him. He pulled out an earbud, waiting.
"Show me your hand."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine. You don't have to- "
"Just show me."
He extended his right hand. The skin above his wrist was still red, the small welt from the paintball already fading but still visible. Selina examined it with a seriousness that made him want to smile.
"Did you clean it? Why didn't you get a bandage?"
"I cleaned it. These kinds of wounds heal faster if you leave them open."
"Then at least put some ointment on it."
"It's not that serious."
"Still…"
He reached into his bag and pulled out a small bandage from the pack he always carried. Selina took it from him and carefully smoothed it over the red mark, her fingers light against his skin.
"Thank you," she said, "for taking that hit for me."
"It's not a big deal. It wasn't a real bullet."
She looked up at him, and something in her expression made him pause. "I know,"
The snow park was a world of white, the air sharp and cold. They split into teams for a snowball fight, Selina's team won this time. Then came ice skating.
Selina glided onto the rink like she'd been born on it, her movements fluid, confident. She spun once, twice, a small flourish at the end, and the group cheered. Michael skated more cautiously, steady but unspectacular.
She caught him watching and skated over. "You're not bad."
"You're showing off."
"Maybe." She grinned. "Come on. I'll teach you something."
She pulled him toward the centre of the rink. He let her.
The last day arrived too quickly. They spent it at a castle that had been converted into a museum, the halls echoing with the footsteps of tourists. Michael wandered through the rooms with his camera. Selina found him in a quiet corridor overlooking the gardens, his camera lowered, just looking.
"It's beautiful," she said, coming to stand beside him.
"Yeah."
She glanced at him. "Do you always see the world through a lens?"
He considered the question. "I see it," he said slowly, "and sometimes I want to remember it. The camera just helps."
She watched him lift it again, framing the winter garden below. She wondered what it would be like to be looked at that way, not as a subject to be captured, but as something worth remembering.
The train ride home was quieter than the trip out. Everyone was tired, the excitement of the past days settling into a comfortable exhaustion. Michael lay awake for a time, listening to the rhythm of the tracks, replaying moments he couldn't name.
In the morning, the city appeared through the frost-covered windows, grey and familiar.
Michael found a bench near the exit, waiting for a taxi. He'd just pulled out his phone when he heard his name.
"Michael!"
Selina was hurrying toward him. She stopped in front of him, slightly breathless.
"We didn't get to say a proper goodbye." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I just wanted to say, it was great. Spending time with you. Let's keep in touch, okay? We're friends now, right?"
A warmth spread through his chest. "Yeah," he said. "We're friends."
She smiled, bright and real. "Good. Then I'll see you again."
The weeks that followed settled into the familiar rhythm of work and routine. They exchanged messages now and then, a photo she'd taken of a sunset, a link he sent to a song she might like, but the conversations were short, the distance between their lives asserting itself again.
Selina was busy with her residency applications; Michael was buried in end-of-year reports. Slowly, the thread began to fade.
Then, on the last day of the year, his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, surprised. Asper.
"Hello?"
"Michael!" Her voice was bright, slightly harried. "New Year's party at my place. You're coming?"
He leaned back in his chair, looking out at the grey winter sky. "Who else is going?"
Asper laughed. "Everyone. Rory's already promised he won't bail this time. And I heard Selina's coming too."
Michael's hand stilled on the windowsill.
"So? You in?"
He thought of the train station, the way she'd leaned out of the taxi window. We're friends now, right?
"Yeah," he said. "I'm in."