Out of the Past #2
He could have spent a lifetime like that—wondering if he was real or dreaming—as long as she was beside him.
Wrapped in that quiet happiness, he believed it would last forever.
The horizon felt endless. He’d never spent so many uninterrupted hours with her, and a tenderness between them had begun to take root.
A soft familiarity, gentle and thrilling.
Sometimes, when her eyes lingered too long on his, or when she laughed at his dumbest jokes, he felt it—she wanted more.
But just as quickly, she would pull away. As if some invisible line hovered between them, and she couldn’t bring herself to cross it. He never asked why.
He didn’t want to risk the magic they already had.
He had slipped so easily into the rhythm of their afternoons, he never imagined she might one day just... stop showing up.
The morning it happened, he found Clive in the schoolyard instead of Dragonfly. He assumed she’d caught that summer cold going around. A dozen of the students had been sneezing for days. He stopped by her house that afternoon, just to check on her, bring a little honey and lemon.
Her sister opened the door.
“She’s gone,” she said, too casually. “Moved to White Wood.”
The words barely registered.
Gone? What did she mean gone? Surely she’d misspoken. Dragonfly wouldn’t leave without telling him. Not her. Not after everything.
But later, Hadria confirmed it—Dragonfly had asked for the transfer herself.
Shock cracked open a chasm in his chest. She hadn’t even mentioned White Wood. Not once. Not even in passing. If they were friends—and they were—didn’t he deserve at least a goodbye?
He wrote her letters. Four of them. Five, maybe. But none made it to the envelope. Every time he read them back, they sounded bitter. Accusatory. Like he was demanding answers he didn’t have the right to ask.
How could you leave without saying goodbye? I thought our time meant something. Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? Was I really just a friend? Was that all I ever was to you?
He burned them in the stove, one by one.
The grief turned hot—anger, maybe—but it never lasted. It drained too quickly into a dull, sinking ache.
Looking back, maybe the signs had been there. Her silences. The way she’d look out past the lake, toward the hills, like she already had one foot out the door.
He spent the next three afternoons alone, sitting by the water, retracing conversations they never got to finish. The lake felt colder now. Still. Even the fish seemed uninterested. He didn’t cast a line.
There was nothing left to say.
All he wanted was to stew in it—wade into the loneliness and let it take him.
To forget what it had felt like, being that full of light.
But he couldn’t. He kept thinking of her.
Wondering what she was doing in White Wood.
If she liked it there. If she missed him at all.
Or if someone else had already taken his place, some new man she met by the edge of another lake.
He’d always been drawn to her. She was bold, clever, impossible to ignore. At first, it was fascination. Then desire. Then something deeper he didn’t know how to name. His friends had chased girls for kisses and bragging rights, but he’d always wanted only her.
He used to imagine her hands in his hair. Her mouth against his. The way her breath might catch if he pulled her close.
But it wasn’t just that anymore. Not for a long time.
He wanted to stay beside her. That was the truth. He wanted her laughter, her questions, her fire. Her presence. And the realization—this terrifying, irreversible thing—that he might have lost her forever? That he might love her?
It hit like a stone in his chest. Heavy. Permanent.
As Collin stepped off the dusty path, his beautiful log cabin came into view.
Surprising. Lekyi was perched on the top rail of the front yard fence. What was he doing here? Collin called a greeting and quickened his steps.
Lekyi hopped off the fence, his North Town gold hair catching the light like polished straw.
The sun hit it just wrong—Collin had to squint.
He wore a black silk shirt with silver buttons marching neatly down the front, sleeves rolled up just past the elbows, the collar open just enough to suggest effortlessness.
Of course it wasn’t effortless. Lekyi dressed like he expected to be admired. And he always was.
Collin wished, not for the first time, that he could wear confidence like that—tailored and breathable.
Lekyi held out his hand. Collin slapped it with a grin.
“Goodness, look at you. Who are you trying to seduce this time?”
Lekyi tugged at his collar, eyes alight. “You know the saying—every interaction is an opportunity. One never knows when a helpless damsel might appear along the woodland trail.”
Collin laughed. “Let me know which trail that is. Mine’s full of ogres and grandmothers.”
A breeze stirred the meadow, lifting a few strands of Lekyi’s perfectly straight hair. He ran a hand through it absently, glancing down at a white butterfly fluttering over a patch of Love-In-Idleness near the fence.
His tone changed. “Actually—I can’t stay for dinner tonight. I’m heading to the coast.”
Collin blinked. “There goes my plan that involved cutlery and dignity. What’s in Nereid?”
Lekyi didn’t catch the shift in his voice—or pretended not to. His grin only widened.
“A certain beachside beauty I’ve been courting. The kind with a voice like the tide and opinions like lightning.”
Collin forced a smile, though his chest had gone a little hollow. Was there anyone who could actually hold Lekyi’s attention longer than a few moon phases? His tastes were predictable—always the clever, polished girls from higher circles, the ones who knew how to wear elegance like jewelry.
“What happened with Rhea?” Collin asked.
Lekyi shrugged. “Ended. These things often do.”
Collin tried for levity. “Well, tonight is a fine night for stargazing and romantic delusions.”
Lekyi winked. “Exactly. Give Aries my regrets, will you? I’ll make it up to you boys next week.”
Collin nodded, jaw tight behind the smile. “Have a magical evening. Can’t wait for the poetic retelling.”
Lekyi gave a casual wave and trotted off down the path, disappearing into the tall grass like he’d never weighed anything down in his life.
Collin lifted his hand in return. Then he kicked the gate open with a solid thud.
He dropped his bookbag on the dinner table and collapsed into the blue armchair like it might absorb his disappointment. So much for dinner with his two best friends. Instead, they were off chasing kisses and moonlight.
Of course.
He could try someone else. Nic was probably off with Helen, whispering sweet nothings and stealing pie from her kitchen.
River was likely buried under another night shift at the hospital.
Uriah had that cough again. The twins didn’t go out after dark, and Arion was still off wandering the countryside with his father.
So many friends. And still—he was alone.
Wasn’t that just perfect.
He stared out the window at the old oak. The sky was obnoxiously blue, the meadow too green. Sunlight spilled through the branches like it had something to celebrate. It cast golden patterns on the grass—shifting, lovely, pointless.
If Dragonfly were still here, they’d be sitting under another oak by the lake. They’d be watching the sunset colors ripple across the water, maybe talking, maybe not. He could almost hear her laugh—soft, amused, the way it sounded when he said something accidentally clever.
But the sound dissolved before he could hold it. The image slipped through him, and what lingered wasn’t warmth. It was the ache she always left behind.
He went into his room and sat on the edge of his bed with a slow, heavy exhale. He reached beneath it and pulled out the wooden crate—Aries had found it weeks ago, stashed in a dusty corner of the study. Collin had moved it here, telling himself he’d open it soon. Again and again, he hadn’t.
He set it on his lap. The lid bore a single name, written in looping script, Jiah. The J curved just like his own. His fingers hovered there, as if touching it might break some sacred spell.
What would be inside? He needed to know. But...
His chest tightened. He took a breath, trying to calm his heart—too fast, too loud. Then, with one swift motion, he wrenched the lid free.
Dust rose. Inside—piles of yellowed papers. Some were loose, others bound with string into uneven bundles. Two distinct hands. Two lives, pressed between pages.
Collin stared. These weren’t discarded documents. These were journals. Their journals. Mother’s and Father’s.
His pulse quickened. Their voices. Their secrets. The small, unspoken thoughts of the two people he’d loved and lost. It was all here—in an ordinary box that suddenly felt too heavy to hold.
He blinked hard, mind spinning. Part of him wanted to dive in, to read every word, to know them—truly know them.
But another part, stronger, pulled back.
What if he didn’t like what he found? These weren’t storybook parents, weren’t fictional heroes living tidy, noble lives on paper. They were human. Fallible.
What if they were cruel in moments? Jealous? Petty? What if they had wanted something different than the life he believed they cherished? What if they regretted it all?
He had put them on pedestals—Jiah, brave and unwavering; Ismene, warm and thoughtful. What if the pages told a different story?
Was it wrong to read them?
The thoughts churned. His throat ached.
He reached for the stack of Jiah’s loose papers—his hands shaking. Ismene’s were bound, careful and ordered, of course. Father’s were messier, barely held together by time and pressure.
As he lifted the top few pages, a small envelope slipped free, yellowed and creased at the edges.
Collin turned it over.
And froze.
His name. Written in Jiah’s familiar scrawl.