A week passed, then a month. Sharon, mindful and headstrong, made herself a silent promise: no more encounters with that cocky, confusing boy. In the evenings, she'd pause before turning the same corner, eyes scanning for a flash of Sid's messy hair or that trademark grin. When she did spot him just once, playing football under a cloud of dust and wild shouts, she ducked away before he could look up, heart thudding. It wasn't fear, exactly, but the sharp, stinging urge not to be seen or pulled back in.
Days blurred into schoolwork, hockey practices, and the steady thrum of daily routine. Sid slid from her mind, fading into the vague background of "kids from the colony," a recurring face she might spot and ignore, just another chapter shut. Slowly, the strange flutter of their encounters dissolved, leaving behind a quiet story she barely retold, even to herself.
A full year slipped by. Sharon, a year taller and far steadier, felt her old self grow distant like a diary entry left unfinished. She'd changed study classes, made new friends, and learned to enjoy her own company. On the field, she was trusted and tough; at home, proud of how self-sufficient she'd become. Sid, his face, his teasing, even his "love doesn't need age" became little more than a curious echo.
Until one afternoon, everything shifted. The street was busy, crowded with kids in uniforms and parents steering scooters. Sharon was returning from the market with a friend, the two of them mid-laugh, when she recognized a figure up ahead: Sid, no longer a boy but something on the verge of getting taller, older, rougher. He was deep in conversation with a friend; both of them stopped as the groups intersected.
Sharon hesitated. An old nervousness fluttered, but this time, she steeled herself and walked right up with confidence she didn't feel a year ago. "Hey," she said, hand out and friendly, "long time no see." She smiled, polite but measured. "How have you been?"
Sid blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes. For a heartbeat, he was caught off guard, then, hiding it with his usual charm, he took her hand. "I'm good. You?" The exchange was quick, gentle, and then just as quickly passed. Each rejoined their friends, fading into the busy street as if they'd always been strangers.
That night, Sharon found herself reflecting as she did her homework: Now he doesn't know anything about me—new school, new habits, new everything. That was probably the end. The finality was both a relief and a dim pang, proof she'd truly grown.
But some chances aren't as final as they seem. Sometimes, even the stories we think are over have a way of circling back when we least expect it.