The sun came in too soft to wake me properly — the kind of light that tiptoes instead of knocking.
I shifted under my blanket, feeling something gritty in the sheets. I reached down, curious, and held up a tiny grain of sand between my fingers.
Still here. Still clinging on.
Somehow, I'd fallen asleep in the same hoodie I wore to the beach. The sleeves smelled like saltwater and Maya's coconut spray. My socks were halfway off, and my phone was tucked under the pillow like I was waiting for a dream to call back.
I sat up slowly, blinking. My window was open, letting in that mix of ocean air and neighborhood hum. In the distance, a lawnmower buzzed like summer had officially clocked in. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked, and someone laughed.
The room felt warm. Familiar.
But also like something had shifted.
Like the world had turned a little, just slightly, while I wasn't paying attention.
I padded across the floor, the notebook on my desk already calling to me. My feet stuck slightly to the hardwood — leftover beach mist clinging to my skin. I didn't bother changing clothes yet. I just sat, cross-legged, and reached for the pen like I always did.
June 16
The morning after friends, fries, and fire-colored skies.
Some nights don't end when they're over.
They follow you into your sheets. They live in the salt behind your ears.
You wake up, and they're still inside your chest — soft, glowing, echoing.
Maya. Rey. Me.
We weren't trying to hold on to something. We just didn't want to lose it yet.
Rey had charcoal on his fingers, and Maya had ketchup on her hoodie.
We passed fries like secrets.
We told stories like they wouldn't ever leave us.
And I sat there with words in my throat I couldn't say out loud.
Words like I'm scared.
Words like don't grow up yet.
Words like I love you guys more than I know how to say.
But instead, I just laughed when they laughed.
And wrote it down later.
I stopped and read the last line twice.
Then my phone buzzed.
Once.
Then again.
Then five times in rapid, breathless bursts.
I didn't even flinch. I just reached for it automatically, expecting Maya or maybe Rey, sending memes or beach plans or a question about which flavor of ice cream counts as breakfast.
But it wasn't them.
It was a name I hadn't seen in months.
A name I'd sworn I was done with.
A name that still made something in me go still.
Liam.
I froze.
Liam.
The boy with the crooked smile and the terrible guitar skills.
The boy who read my poetry with his eyebrows scrunched and said, "This one feels like rain."
The boy who kissed me in the rain.
Then disappeared like it meant nothing.
I stared at the screen like it might vanish if I blinked.
But the messages stayed.
LIAM: hey.
LIAM: is it weird that i'm texting you?
LIAM: i drove past the dock last night. thought of you.
LIAM: you still write stuff?
LIAM: i miss talking to you.
That last one stung the most.
Not because I didn't miss him.
But because I did.
I hated that I did.
unsent
i wish i could say i forgot the sound of your laugh.
but it still lives in the pauses between songs i skip too fast.
i wish i could say you didn't ruin the dock for me.
but i still check for your car every time i go.
i wish i could hate you.
but you left too quietly to deserve it.
I didn't reply.
Not because I didn't have anything to say.
But because I had too much.
I tossed the phone on the bed like it burned.
Then stood up. Restless. Dizzy. Cold, despite the warmth.
I glanced at the mirror, caught my own reflection.
This is me now.
Hair frizzy from sea wind.
Eyes tired from memory.
Heart half-glued, half-wandering.
I thought of telling Maya. She'd probably gasp, throw her arms up, and threaten to block him herself. Then she'd hug me so hard I'd forget why I was upset.
Or maybe Rey. He wouldn't say much. He'd just hand me a sketch a week later — something like a girl staring at her reflection in the ocean, not knowing which one was real.
But I didn't want anyone's reaction just yet.
I just wanted to sit in it.
Feel it.
Write through it.
Maybe that's what it means to grow up — not fixing things right away. Not erasing old wounds just to prove you're fine. But letting them breathe, and knowing you're still healing.
Outside, the wind picked up.
Inside, I picked up the pen again.
And summer kept on unfolding —
soft and bright and dangerous.
Just like me.