Chapter One — The Constant
The first bell of the term rings through Maplewood High like a sigh a sound that means summer's over and life is back to uniform skirts, chipped lockers, and the faint smell of disinfectant in the corridors.
I stand by my locker, trying to wedge a stack of new textbooks onto a shelf that's already too small, when a familiar voice says, "You still hoard every notebook you've ever owned, don't you?"
I don't have to turn around to know who it is.
Liam Brooks.
He's leaning against the locker next to mine, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess that somehow looks intentional. He's got that lazy grin the one that makes you forgive him for being late, loud, or occasionally irritating.
"Organisation is not hoarding," I say, tugging a stubborn book free. "It's preparation."
He chuckles, low and warm. "Preparation for what, exactly? The apocalypse?"
"Exams," I say pointedly, shutting my locker with a clang. "Though they do feel about the same."
He slings his bag over his shoulder and walks with me down the hall. We've done this a thousand times the same hallways, the same inside jokes. Liam's been the constant in my life since we were five, when he offered me half his biscuit on the first day of primary school. He's seen me at my worst braces, bad fringe, the lot.
What he doesn't know is that somewhere between sharing crayons and swapping playlists, I started wanting more than just friendship.
"You're quiet today," he says, glancing at me. "Don't tell me you've already had your existential crisis and it's only first period."
I smirk. "Not yet. But I'll pencil it in after lunch."
He laughs again, and for a moment, everything feels simple. Just me, Liam, and the safe little world we've built the one where nothing changes.
But as we reach the noticeboard near the canteen, I notice a poster pinned up.
"Welcome new students! Maplewood High welcomes Maya Cruz."
A name I've never heard before.
The photo is a bit blurry, but even through the grainy print, you can tell dark hair, sharp eyes, a quiet sort of confidence.
"New girl," Liam says, reading over my shoulder. "I'll bet she won't last a week. People either love this place or run screaming."
"Maybe she'll be normal," I reply. "Not another TikTok-obsessed disaster."
"Doubt it," he says. "Anyway, you'll still be my favourite disaster."
He nudges me with his elbow, grinning, and I pretend not to blush.
By the time lunch rolls around, the cafeteria is buzzing. Everyone's talking about the new girl. Some say she's from Spain, others whisper about her being expelled from her last school. Maplewood thrives on rumours truth rarely survives the first retelling.
And then I see her.
Maya Cruz walks in like she doesn't notice the stares or maybe she just doesn't care. Her uniform fits perfectly, her dark hair tied back in a loose braid that swings against her shoulder. There's something about her that feels… deliberate.
Liam spots her too. "She's brave," he murmurs. "Sitting next to Josh and his lot? That's social suicide."
I smile faintly. "Maybe she didn't get the memo."
He hesitates for half a second, then grabs his tray. "Come on, we should say hi."
"We?" I echo.
"Yeah, you're the friendly one. I'm the moral support."
Before I can protest, he's already weaving through the tables towards her. My stomach twists.
He introduces himself with that easy charm of his, the one that works on teachers and shopkeepers alike. Maya looks up, eyes bright, and smiles. It's not forced. It's real.
I join them reluctantly, trying not to feel like an intruder.
"Tara," Liam says, gesturing between us. "This is Maya. Maya, this is Tara the one person who actually does her homework."
"Hi," Maya says. Her accent is soft, faintly British but with something else underneath. "Nice to meet you."
"Same," I reply. "Welcome to Maplewood."
She smiles again, and I find myself noticing the details how her eyes seem to study everything, how she laughs lightly at Liam's jokes.
And just like that, I feel something shift.
Something small, almost invisible.
A crack in the picture-perfect balance of my world.
After school, Liam and I walk home together like always, but it's different now. He talks about Maya how she's funny, sharper than she looks, "kind of cool, actually."
I nod, pretending not to care.
But in my chest, jealousy flickers quiet, uninvited, and impossible to ignore.
Chapter Two — The New Girl
By Friday, everyone knows Maya Cruz's name.
It's on every pair of lips in the corridor, scribbled on the back of someone's notebook, even mentioned by Mrs Jenkins in form assembly "a fine example of new students adjusting well."
Apparently, she's adjusted better than anyone expected.
I sit at my desk in English, chewing on my pen lid as Mr Harris drones on about Shakespeare's Sonnet 116. Liam is across the room, three rows ahead, and Maya sits right next to him. I'm not usually one to pay attention to seating charts, but ever since Tuesday, it's become impossible not to notice.
They share little smiles, whispers that make Liam grin in that way that used to be reserved for me.
"Miss Daniels," Mr Harris says suddenly, "perhaps you can tell us what the poet means by 'love is not love which alters when it alteration finds'?"
The class chuckles. Liam glances back at me, lips twitching.
"It means… true love doesn't change just because circumstances do," I manage, forcing a smile.
Mr Harris nods. "Good. Though I suspect Shakespeare didn't have Year 12 in mind when he wrote that."
Laughter again. I sink lower in my seat, cheeks burning.
After class, Liam catches up with me by the lockers.
"Nice save back there," he says, grinning. "You sounded like you actually understood poetry for once."
"I do understand poetry," I retort. "I just don't enjoy being used as a classroom punchline."
He laughs. "Fair point. Fancy grabbing lunch?"
Before I can answer, Maya appears beside him, her hair loose today, curls brushing her shoulders. "Hey, Liam. Are you still showing me the art block later? I've got to hand in that transfer form."
"Oh, right. Yeah," he says quickly, then turns to me. "You don't mind, do you?"
I hesitate for a heartbeat. "No, of course not."
He flashes me a grateful smile the kind that always disarms me and they walk off together, chatting easily.
And just like that, I'm left standing there, my sandwich going stale in my bag.
That night, I scroll through Instagram, trying not to look for them. But the algorithm has other ideas.
@MayaCruz_ posted:
📸 "New beginnings."
The photo shows Liam and Maya by the art building, sunlight spilling through the windows. He's laughing, carefree. She's looking at him, not the camera.
My stomach sinks.
"Pathetic," I mutter to myself, tossing my phone aside. But my heart doesn't listen.
By the next week, it's official Liam and Maya are inseparable.
Group projects, lunch breaks, inside jokes that I'm no longer part of.
"Maybe she's just new," my friend Ellie says one afternoon. "It'll wear off once the novelty does."
"Yeah," I reply, forcing a smile. "Maybe."
But the truth is, it's not novelty. It's connection.
And I can feel it that invisible line that always tethered Liam and me together starting to fray.
Friday night, there's a small gathering at Jordan White's house. Not a full-on party, just music, snacks, and enough cheap cider to make everyone a bit louder than usual.
I tell myself I'm only going because Liam will be there.
When I arrive, he's already in the garden, leaning against the fence with Maya, their heads close together under the fairy lights. She's wearing his hoodie.
Something inside me cracks a little.
Ellie loops her arm through mine. "Ignore them," she says. "Let's dance."
So I do. I laugh, I move, I even let someone film a stupid TikTok of us singing along to an old Ed Sheeran song. For a few minutes, I forget.
Until I glance across the garden and see it Liam's hand brushing against Maya's.
Not by accident.
Deliberate.
And that's when I realise: the change I've been pretending not to notice is real.
The constant I've always relied on isn't constant anymore.
The next morning, my phone buzzes.
Liam:
"Hey, you got home okay?"
I stare at the screen for a long time before replying.
Me:
"Yeah. Fine."
Liam:
"You seemed quiet last night."
Me:
"Just tired."
Liam:
"You sure?"
I start typing, No, I'm not sure. You're slipping away and I don't know how to stop it.
But I delete it.
Me:
"Yeah. See you Monday."
As I set my phone aside, a quiet truth settles in:
You can lose someone long before they actually leave.
Chapter Three — Unspoken Words
There's a strange kind of silence that settles between people who used to talk about everything.
The sort that hums underneath words that never get said.
By Monday morning, that's what it feels like between Liam and me.
We still walk to school together but the conversation has shrunk. No more jokes about the teachers or who'll fail maths first. Just small talk. Careful talk. Like we're both trying not to break something fragile.
He's telling me about football practice, but his eyes flicker towards the main gate as we pass. I don't have to look to know who he's searching for.
Sure enough, a voice calls out, "Morning!"
Maya.
She's got her hair up in a messy bun, the kind that looks effortless but probably took forever. Liam waves, and that grin the one that used to belong to me appears again.
"Hey, I'll catch you later, yeah?" he says, already half turned towards her.
"Yeah," I murmur, but he's gone before I finish the word.
Lessons drag. Every teacher seems intent on making the day longer, every clock tick louder. In Art, Maya joins our table. I try to focus on my sketch, but she sits opposite me, laughing at something Liam says.
I glance up once just once and she catches me.
Her smile falters, just for a second, before she looks away.
Maybe she feels guilty. Or maybe I'm just imagining it.
"Your drawing's lovely," she says after a while, voice soft. "Is that the lake behind the park?"
I blink, surprised. "Yeah. I go there sometimes. It's quiet."
"It looks peaceful."
There's a sincerity in her tone that throws me off. For a moment, I almost like her.
Then Liam leans closer to see my sketch, his arm brushing hers, and the feeling disappears as quickly as it came.
At lunch, Ellie corners me in the corridor.
"You've got to stop torturing yourself," she says bluntly. "It's written all over your face."
"I don't know what you mean."
She folds her arms. "Oh, please. You've been staring at them all week like you're in some tragic Netflix drama. Either tell him how you feel or move on."
"I can't," I whisper. "He's my best friend."
Ellie sighs. "Yeah, and maybe that's the problem."
That evening, I find myself at the lake. It's almost empty, apart from a few ducks and the reflection of streetlights rippling across the water. This is where Liam and I used to come during summer to talk about everything and nothing.
Now I'm here alone.
I scroll through our old messages, stopping at one from last year.
Liam: "Promise me you'll never change, Daniels. You're the only person who actually gets me."
I lock my phone, heart heavy.
Maybe it's not me who's changed. Maybe it's him.
The next few days blur together. Group work, half-hearted smiles, polite nods. Liam tries to check in "You alright?" but I always brush him off.
Then, on Friday, word spreads that Jordan's throwing another party. A proper one this time. Everyone's invited.
"Are you going?" Ellie asks, stuffing books into her bag.
"I don't know," I say. "I might just stay in."
She gives me a look. "No, you're not. You're coming. End of."
I don't argue. Maybe a party is what I need a distraction, or at least something loud enough to drown out my thoughts.
That night, I stand in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of my dress. It's simple, pale blue, the one Mum said brings out my eyes. I curl my hair, add a touch of mascara, and stare at my reflection.
"You can do this," I tell myself quietly. "It's just a party."
But it's not just a party.
Because Liam will be there.
And Maya will be there too.
When I arrive, the music hits like a wave bass shaking the floorboards, laughter spilling out of every corner. The living room is crowded, warm, alive.
I find Ellie first. She grins, handing me a cup. "You made it! Let's make bad decisions."
I laugh, but my eyes are already searching.
Then I see them. Liam and Maya, standing close near the kitchen door, talking quietly. He's wearing that dark jacket she said looked good on him.
The air catches in my throat.
They don't see me.
Not yet.
I take a sip of my drink, pretending to listen to Ellie's story, but my gaze keeps drifting back. Watching. Waiting.
And that's when it happens.
A moment so small it shouldn't matter except it does.
Liam tucks a loose strand of hair behind Maya's ear.
She looks up at him. He smiles.
And suddenly, the world narrows to the space between them.
They're about to kiss.
I turn away before they do.
My chest tightens, eyes stinging. I can't breathe.
I step outside into the cool night air. The music fades behind me, replaced by the soft rustle of trees.
I lean against the fence, blinking hard, and that's when I hear the door open.
"Tara?"
It's Liam.
He walks towards me, concern in his voice. "Are you okay? You just disappeared."
I swallow. "Yeah. Needed some air."
He studies me for a moment, frowning slightly. "You seem… off lately. Did I do something?"
Yes, I want to say. You did. You forgot me.
But instead, I shrug. "I'm fine. Just tired."
He nods slowly, but his eyes say he doesn't believe me. "Alright. But you know you can tell me anything, yeah?"
I force a smile. "Yeah. I know."
He hesitates, then turns back towards the house. "Come back in when you're ready."
As the door shuts behind him, I let out a shaky breath.
The words stay lodged in my throat, heavy and unspoken.
Because that's the thing about love
Sometimes it's not about what you say.
It's about everything you don't.
Chapter Four — The Party
There's something about a Saturday night in Maplewood that makes the whole town feel like it's holding its breath.
By the time I reach Jordan's house, the music's already spilling down the street loud, pulsing, alive. The garden gate creaks as I push it open, lights flickering through the windows in flashes of blue and gold.
Inside, the place is packed. Someone's turned the lounge into a makeshift dance floor; the air smells like perfume and cheap lager. I can feel the bass in my chest.
Ellie spots me instantly. "Tara! You came!"
I grin weakly. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Good," she says, linking her arm through mine. "Let's find a drink before the Year Elevens finish it all."
We weave through the crowd, laughing at nothing, pretending to belong. But my eyes are scanning the room searching.
And then I see them.
Liam and Maya.
They're in the kitchen, standing close, talking over the music. Maya's wearing a black top that catches the light every time she moves. Liam says something that makes her laugh, and the sound cuts through the noise around me.
I look away quickly, heart thudding.
Ellie follows my gaze and sighs. "Do you want to leave?"
"No," I say too quickly. "I'm fine."
But I'm not. I can feel it that ache sitting right beneath my ribs, heavy and familiar.
Half an hour later, I've lost Ellie to a group from the football team. I end up in the hallway, phone in hand, pretending to check messages just so I don't have to make eye contact with anyone.
That's when Jordan, the host, stumbles past with a grin. "Tara Daniels at a party? Miracles do happen!"
"Don't get used to it," I reply dryly.
He laughs and disappears upstairs.
I stand there for a moment, listening to the muffled music, and then — a sound. A soft laugh from down the corridor.
It's familiar.
My stomach twists.
I take a step closer. The door at the end of the hall is slightly ajar, light spilling through the crack. I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't.
But I do.
And everything stops.
Liam and Maya are standing close too close. Her hand rests on his chest, his fingers brushing her arm. The look in his eyes makes my throat close up.
Then he kisses her.
It's brief, hesitant, but real.
The kind of kiss that says everything words can't.
I freeze, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. The music from downstairs keeps playing, but I can't hear it anymore.
I back away before they see me, heart pounding. My hands are shaking.
The air feels too thick, too heavy. I push through the crowd, barely seeing where I'm going. Someone calls my name maybe Ellie, maybe not but I don't stop.
I reach the front door, shove it open, and step into the night.
The cold hits me like a slap.
I walk fast, heels clicking against the pavement, eyes blurred. By the time I reach the end of the street, I can't tell if I'm shivering from the cold or from everything breaking inside me.
I don't know how long I walk before I stop by the lake our lake. The one from my sketchbook, the one we used to sit by every summer.
Now it feels like a ghost of something I'll never get back.
I sink onto the bench, wiping at my face. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. I can't talk to anyone. Not Liam. Not even Ellie.
Somewhere behind me, fireworks go off probably from the party. Red and gold reflections dance on the water, mocking the quiet ache in my chest.
The next morning, Maplewood wakes up buzzing.
By the time I get to school on Monday, I know something's wrong. People are whispering, glancing at me, then looking away.
Ellie finds me at my locker, eyes wide. "Tara, have you seen it?"
"Seen what?"
She hesitates, then shows me her phone.
It's a photo.
Grainy, taken through a half-open door.
Liam and Maya.
Kissing.
The caption reads:
"About time 😍 #MaplewoodSecrets #Liam&Maya"
My heart stops.
"Who posted that?" I whisper.
"Probably Jordan," Ellie says softly. "It's everywhere."
I can barely breathe. "Everywhere?"
She nods. "Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok. Everyone's talking about it."
I shut my locker slowly. My reflection in the metal door looks pale, unfamiliar.
Liam's voice breaks through the noise of the corridor. "Tara"
I turn, but I can't look at him. I just walk past, eyes fixed ahead, pretending I don't hear him calling my name.
That night, my phone won't stop buzzing. Messages, tags, sympathy DMs from people who barely know me.
I switch it off.
For the first time in years, I don't reply to Liam.
I don't know what hurts more the kiss itself, or the fact that everyone else knows about it.
The one thing that was supposed to be ours has turned into a rumour.
And I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive him.
Chapter Five — The Fallout
Silence can be louder than shouting.
It fills the gaps between messages you don't answer, the corridors you avoid, and the people you once couldn't go a day without speaking to.
By Tuesday morning, the silence between Liam and me is deafening.
I hear his voice sometimes calling my name, asking if I'm alright but I never stop. I keep walking.
The rumours have already done enough talking for all of us.
At lunch, I sit in the far corner of the canteen with Ellie, pretending to scroll through my phone. Every few minutes, I catch someone looking our way. They turn back quickly, whispering behind their hands.
"Honestly," Ellie mutters, stabbing her fork into her salad, "they act like you were married to him or something."
"It's fine," I say automatically, though my throat feels tight.
"No, it's not fine. You've known him since you were five, and now everyone's treating you like some tragic headline."
I shrug. "Let them."
But the truth is, it hurts. Not just what they're saying that I was jealous, that I overreacted, that I was "obsessed" but that Liam hasn't said anything to stop it.
In English, we're paired for an essay. Mr Harris announces it casually, like it's nothing.
"Tara and Liam," he says. "Work together on the theme of betrayal in Othello. Fitting, really."
A ripple of laughter follows.
I stare down at my notebook, cheeks burning.
When class ends, Liam waits by the door. "Can we talk?"
"No."
"Tara, please"
"I said no."
He looks hurt, but I don't care. I walk straight past him.
That night, he texts me.
Liam: I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen.
I stare at the message for ages.
Me: You kissed her, Liam. And then the whole school saw it.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again.
Finally:
Liam: It wasn't planned. I swear. It just… happened.
I type: Things don't just happen.
Then I delete it.
I put my phone face down on my desk, trying not to cry.
The next day, Maya corners me by the lockers.
"Tara," she says, voice careful, "can we talk?"
I don't even look at her. "Why? So you can tell me it didn't mean anything?"
Her eyes widen. "No. I just… I never wanted to hurt you. I didn't know you and Liam"
"Weren't you supposed to be smart?" I snap. "You must've known."
Her face pales. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't change anything," I say, slamming my locker shut.
For a second, I see something break behind her eyes regret, guilt, maybe both. But I don't stay long enough to care.
At home, Mum knocks on my door.
"You've barely eaten," she says gently. "Is everything alright at school?"
"Fine."
She hesitates, then says, "You know, sometimes holding things in makes them worse."
I nod, because it's easier than explaining.
She leaves me with a plate of toast I don't touch.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the radiator, and wonder when everything started to fall apart.
By Friday, the photo has finally stopped circulating replaced by some new scandal about the head girl and a stolen exam paper.
But the damage is done.
Liam sits alone at lunch now. I can feel his eyes on me across the room, but I never look up.
Part of me wants to forgive him.
The other part still sees that image the kiss, the flash of the camera, the betrayal frozen in pixels.
Maybe time will make it hurt less.
But right now, I just want it to stop hurting at all.
That weekend, I walk to the lake again. The air is cold, sharp enough to sting. I sit on the bench, sketchbook on my lap, pencil trembling between my fingers.
I draw the reflection of the trees, the ripples on the water but it's not the same. The lake used to feel like ours. Now it's just a reminder.
I tear out the page.
It flutters into the wind, landing somewhere out of sight.
That night, Ellie texts me:
Ellie: There's a school trip next month London Art Museum. You should come.
Me: Maybe.
Ellie: No maybe. You're coming. You need to start living again.
I smile faintly. She's right. I can't keep drowning in what-ifs.
Because sometimes the people who promise to stay forever don't.
And you have to learn how to live without them.
Chapter Six — The Rumour Mill
By Monday, my name is trending not online in any glamorous sense, but across every whispered conversation in school corridors.
It's ridiculous, really. People I've never spoken to suddenly have an opinion about my love life.
Someone posts a meme on Snap with a caption that reads "When your bestie upgrades to the new girl" and a broken heart emoji.
It gets seventy likes before it disappears.
Apparently, deleting it counts as "being mature."
At first, I try to ignore it. I keep my headphones in between classes, sit in the library during lunch, and pretend I don't see my name flash across phone screens.
But pretending doesn't make it stop.
It gets worse.
Someone leaks screenshots of Liam's messages half-cut, cropped just enough to make me look desperate. "Please talk to me," one reads, as if I was the one begging for attention.
The comments sting.
"She couldn't handle being replaced."
"Drama queen."
"Imagine crying over a boy."
I close my locker a little too hard that afternoon. The metal clangs through the hallway, sharp enough to make a few heads turn.
Ellie finds me in the art room later, scribbling furiously at a blank canvas.
"Hey," she says softly. "You saw the post, didn't you?"
"I don't care," I lie.
"Liar." She sits beside me, uninvited. "You can't let them get to you."
I grip the pencil tighter. "They already have."
Ellie sighs. "You know Liam's been fighting back, right? He told Marcus off this morning."
I blink. "What?"
"Yeah. Proper shouting match near the lockers. Marcus said something about you and Liam losing your minds, and Liam just—snapped."My stomach twists. "Why would he bother?"
"Because he still cares, idiot," Ellie says. "Even if he's an idiot too."
I look down at my sketch two figures standing apart, a lake between them. The distance hurts more than the drawing admits.
That evening, I get a message.
Liam: I stopped them. They won't post about you again. Promise.
I stare at it for a long time.
Me: You didn't have to.
Liam: Yeah, I did.
For a moment, I almost type back something real. Something like I miss you or thank you.
But I delete it, just like always.
Some things are easier left unsaid.
The next morning, Maya is waiting for me by the bike racks. Her eyes are red, like she hasn't slept.
"Tara," she says, voice trembling, "can we talk? Please."
I fold my arms. "You've said enough."
"I didn't leak those messages. I swear. I think Marcus did. He was angry after Liam told him off."
I hesitate, just for a second. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I hate what's happening," she says, her voice breaking. "I thought moving here would be a fresh start, not… this."
For the first time, I see the exhaustion behind her perfect smile. Maybe she isn't the villain I've made her out to be. Maybe she's just another girl caught in the same mess.
"I don't forgive you," I say quietly. "But… I get it."
She nods. "That's enough for now."
Later that day, Mr Harris announces the museum trip details. We're all going — the entire art class. Including Liam. Including Maya. Including me.
As if life enjoys twisting the knife.
When the bell rings, Ellie nudges me.
"London trip's in two weeks. New start?"
"Maybe," I murmur.
But even as I say it, my heart whispers something else a mix of dread and hope I can't quite separate.
Because the last time all three of us were in the same place, everything shattered.
And part of me knows that London might be where everything begins again.
Chapter Seven — The London Trip
The morning of the trip is grey and cold the kind of weather that makes everything look slightly washed out.
It feels fitting.
The coach smells faintly of crisps and cheap perfume. I find a seat halfway down, next to Ellie, who immediately pulls out her earphones.
"Five hours to London," she says, yawning. "You'd think they'd let us fly or something."
I smile weakly. "Budget education."
Across the aisle, Liam's laughing with a group of boys from the football team. He hasn't noticed me yet or maybe he's pretending not to.
Maya sits two rows ahead, her hair tucked behind her ear, sketchbook open. She's wearing the same leather jacket she wore the day she arrived. I used to like that jacket. Now it just makes my stomach twist.
The coach rattles down the motorway, the fields blurring past like green waves. Ellie eventually drifts to sleep, leaving me with my thoughts and a playlist I can't focus on.
Halfway through the journey, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
It's Liam.
"Can we swap seats for a bit?" he asks quietly.
Ellie stirs but doesn't wake. I hesitate, then nod.
He sits beside me, the space suddenly smaller. The air thick.
"You look tired," he says.
"So do you."
A pause.
"I meant what I said," he continues. "About stopping the rumours."
"I know."
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "I never wanted you to get dragged into all this. I just… messed up."
"You think?" I snap, keeping my voice low. "You kissed her, Liam. In front of everyone."
His face crumples. "I didn't plan it, Tara. It just ""Don't." My throat tightens. "Don't say it just happened."
We fall into silence again. The noise of the engine fills the gap heavy, constant, unbearable.
Finally, he whispers, "I miss you."
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
I want to say it back. I want to tell him that every time I see him, it feels like something inside me fractures again.
But I don't.
Instead, I look out the window and say, "You should've thought of that before."
When we reach London, the city feels too alive too loud, too fast, too everything.
The museum is enormous, its marble floors echoing with footsteps and chatter. Mr Harris herds us inside like lost sheep, muttering instructions about sketching techniques.
Ellie disappears into the crowd, and somehow, I end up in the same gallery as Liam and Maya.
Of course.
I try to focus on the paintings brushstrokes, light, texture but my eyes keep flicking towards them.
They're standing close, whispering. Liam laughs softly at something Maya says.
It shouldn't hurt anymore, but it does.
I turn away and move deeper into the exhibit, my chest tight.
A few minutes later, I find myself standing in front of a painting a girl on a bridge, surrounded by fog. Her reflection ripples in the water below, slightly distorted.
Something about it hits too close.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
I glance sideways. It's Maya.
I sigh. "Can't we just… not do this today?"
"I'm not here to argue," she says softly. "I wanted to tell you that Liam's been miserable. He hates what happened."
"Good for him."
She hesitates. "You still care about him."
"That's none of your business."
"I know," she whispers. "But I wish it wasn't mine either."
There's something sincere in her eyes a kind of sadness I can't quite hate.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.
"Because I think he's still in love with you," she says.
I blink, caught completely off guard. "What?"
"He said your name in his sleep on the way here," she murmurs, half smiling. "And before you ask no, I'm not jealous. I just… think you should know."
Then she walks away, leaving me alone with the painting and the mess of emotions I can't name.
Later that afternoon, as we gather outside the museum, the rain starts light at first, then heavy. Everyone rushes for cover under the awning.
Liam finds me again, hair dripping, eyes serious.
"Tara," he says, "I meant what I said earlier. I miss you. Properly."
I fold my arms. "You can't just say things like that and expect them to fix everything."
"I don't expect that," he says. "I just need you to know it."
Something in his voice cracks, and for the first time in weeks, I see the boy I used to know the one who knew every lyric to my favourite songs, who made me laugh until my sides hurt.
I swallow hard. "You really hurt me, Liam."
"I know," he whispers. "And I'm sorry."
The rain keeps falling, cold against our skin. Neither of us moves.
Somewhere behind us, Mr Harris shouts about getting back on the coach, but for once, I don't rush to obey.
Because maybe just maybe this is where things start to change.
Chapter Eight — The Bridge Between Us
The rain followed us home from London.
It falls for days — soft, relentless, the kind that seeps into your thoughts even when you're indoors.
After the museum, Liam and I didn't talk on the coach back.
We sat in silence, the hum of the engine and the soft snore of sleeping classmates between us.
Every so often, I'd glance out the window, watching the city lights fade into darkness, wondering what it meant that he'd said I miss you again.
I wanted to believe it.
But believing hurts.
On Monday morning, everything feels oddly normal. The rumours have slowed, replaced by new gossip about who cheated on their mock exams. The world, it seems, has moved on.
Except me.
Ellie notices it first. "You've been drawing bridges lately," she says, peering at my sketchbook.
I look down. She's right every page is the same: a bridge, sometimes whole, sometimes half-finished, sometimes cracked.
"I don't know why," I say.
"Maybe because you're trying to fix something," she suggests. "Or cross it."
Trust Ellie to turn art into therapy.
At lunch, Liam approaches my table cautious, as if I might vanish if he moves too quickly.
"Can I sit?" he asks.
Ellie raises an eyebrow, then stands. "I'll go buy a drink. Don't murder each other."
He sits across from me. Neither of us says anything for a while.
Finally, he speaks. "You know that painting you were staring at the one with the girl on the bridge?"
I glance up. "You saw that?"
He nods. "Yeah. It reminded me of us. Both standing on opposite sides, waiting for the other to cross."
I almost smile. "Poetic, Brooks."
He shrugs. "You used to like it when I said things like that."
"I used to like a lot of things," I say quietly.
He looks down, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. "I know I don't deserve a second chance. But I'd still like to try."
There's something raw in his tone no performance, no charm. Just truth.
I sigh. "Trying doesn't mean we'll be the same."
"Maybe not," he says. "But maybe we'll be better."
And for the first time, I don't immediately shut the door on the idea.
After school, I walk to the lake our lake for the first time since everything happened. The air smells of rain and earth.
When I arrive, I'm surprised to find him already there.
"Didn't think you'd come," he says.
"I didn't think you would either."
He laughs softly. "Looks like we're both bad at staying away."
The sky is pale gold, the water glassy and still. I sit on the bench, and after a moment, he joins me.
We don't talk at first. We just sit, the silence no longer sharp but gentle, familiar.
Finally, he says, "You remember when we promised we'd leave this town together one day?"
I nod. "We said we'd move to the city, rent a flat, eat nothing but takeaways."
He grins. "Yeah. I still want that."
"Things change, Liam."
He looks at me. "Maybe not everything."
The wind picks up, brushing hair across my face. He reaches out instinctively, tucking a strand behind my ear just like he used to.
It's such a small gesture, but my heart stumbles anyway.
"Stop doing that," I whisper.
"Doing what?"
"Making it hard to stay angry with you."
He smiles, a little sadly. "Then don't."
I don't answer.
Instead, I pull my sketchbook from my bag and tear out the page with the bridge. I hand it to him.
"What's this?"
"A peace offering," I say. "Or maybe just… a start."
He looks at the drawing for a long time before folding it carefully and slipping it into his jacket pocket.
"Thank you," he says softly. "I'll earn the rest."
When I walk home that evening, I realise something important.
Forgiveness isn't about forgetting what happened.
It's about deciding it doesn't get to define you anymore.
And maybe, just maybe, I'm ready to take that first step across the bridge.
Chapter Nine — Rebuilding Us
It's strange how normal things feel again.
Not entirely there's still a crack running through everything but it's quieter now, like the world has exhaled after holding its breath for too long.
Liam and I start talking again, slowly.
First in passing "Did you get the homework?" or "You've got paint on your sleeve."
Then, properly about classes, music, life after exams.
Each conversation feels like testing the water after a storm: tentative, cautious, but warmer than I expect.
One afternoon, I'm sketching in the art room when Liam drops into the seat beside me.
"Still drawing bridges?" he teases.
"Still being nosy?" I shoot back.
He grins, glancing at my paper. "That one's different."
It is. This bridge is whole two figures standing in the middle, facing each other.
"I guess I finished it," I say.
"Looks like it," he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while. The late sunlight filters through the windows, dust motes dancing in the air. For the first time in ages, it feels peaceful.
At lunch the next day, Ellie joins us. She eyes the two of us suspiciously.
"So," she says, "are we all friends again, or am I still supposed to glare at him on your behalf?"
I laugh. "You can relax. Truce has been declared."
"Pity. I was getting good at death stares."
Liam chuckles. "You were terrifying."
"Good," Ellie says sweetly. "Keeps you honest."
The three of us share a laugh, and just like that, something in me shifts. Maybe this is what moving on really looks like not forgetting, but finding a way to breathe again.
That weekend, Maya messages me.
Maya: Hey. Just wanted to say I've decided to move back to Brighton. My mum's job transferred again.
Me: Oh. That's… sudden.
Maya: Yeah. But probably for the best. Thanks for not hating me completely.
Me: I don't. I hope you find your fresh start this time.
She sends a single heart emoji.
And just like that, one chapter quietly closes.
Sunday afternoon, Liam and I meet at the lake again.
The water glimmers under the pale winter sun, and the bench where everything broke feels almost new.
"I heard about Maya," he says.
"Yeah. She's leaving."
He nods. "Probably good for everyone."
We sit for a bit, just listening to the wind.
Finally, he says, "I still have that drawing, you know. The one of the bridge."
"You kept it?"
"Of course I did." He pauses. "I look at it whenever I feel like I've messed everything up again."
I smile faintly. "You do that a lot, then?"
He laughs softly. "More than I should."
A moment passes light, fragile, easy.
Then he reaches for my hand. Not sudden, not forced just gentle, the way you'd reach for something you've missed for a long time.
This time, I don't pull away.
We stay like that, the world quiet around us.
There's still so much unsaid apologies, confessions, all the messy parts we've yet to untangle.
But for once, it doesn't feel like we're standing on opposite sides anymore.
We're both on the bridge now.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.
Chapter Ten — What Comes After
The first sign that things are really changing isn't big or dramatic.
It's the morning I wake up and don't think about what went wrong first thing.
The hurt is still there just smaller, quieter.
Like a bruise fading under the skin.
Spring comes early that year. The air smells of damp earth and new beginnings. The cherry trees near the school gates bloom before Easter, scattering soft pink petals across the pavement.
Everything feels lighter.
Even Mr Harris smiles more, which is saying something.
Liam and I don't rush anything.
There are no labels, no big declarations just long walks after class, shared playlists, and the occasional hand held between moments.
He's careful now.
He listens more, talks less, apologises without excuses.
Once, I catch him watching me while I'm sketching by the lake.
"What?" I ask.
He shrugs, smiling. "Just wondering how I got so lucky twice."
"Twice?"
"Yeah," he says. "First when I met you, and again when you decided to give me another chance."
I roll my eyes, but the truth warms me from the inside out.
In art class, I start a new project portraits. Mr Harris says I've "finally found my confidence again."
My final piece is of three people: me, Liam, and Maya. Not together, not touching just standing apart under the same sky.
Because that's the truth of it.
You don't always stay connected to everyone who shapes your story.
Sometimes you just learn from them, carry the lesson, and let go.
On the last day of term, Ellie and I sit on the grass behind the science block, eating melted chocolate from a shared bar.
"So," she says, "you and Liam are, what, officially unofficial?"
I laugh. "Something like that."
She nudges me. "You're happier, you know. It suits you."
"Maybe I just stopped waiting for someone else to fix it," I say.
Ellie grins. "Deep. You should put that on a T-shirt."
I throw a wrapper at her.
That evening, Liam texts me.
Liam: Meet me at the lake? Sunset.
When I arrive, he's already there hands in pockets, wind tugging at his hair.
He holds up something small and folded. My drawing. The bridge.
"It's creased," he says with a sheepish smile, "but it's still my favourite thing."
He steps closer, eyes soft. "You were right, you know. About some things being worth rebuilding."
The sun dips low, turning the water gold.
"Yeah," I whisper. "I think we did alright."
He reaches for my hand again the same gentle, steady touch as before.
No promises. No perfect ending.
Just two people standing side by side, choosing each other again not because they have to, but because they want to.
Later, walking home, I look back once. The lake gleams faintly under the fading light, the bridge visible in the distance.
And I realise something I didn't before
The story was never really about losing someone.
It was about finding myself.
Chapter Eleven — Full Circle
Time doesn't rush anymore.
It drifts slow, steady, kind.
Six months later, everything feels different. Not perfect. Just… peaceful.
I'm in my last term of school now. The exams, the essays, the university forms they all blur together, but I don't feel lost anymore. I know what I want.
Art. Not as a hobby this time, but as a future.
I've applied for a scholarship in Florence — a summer programme for young artists. Mr Harris nearly teared up when I told him.
"You've finally decided to paint the world instead of hiding from it," he said.
Maybe he's right.
Mum's better too. She's smiling again, cooking again.
The house feels alive not heavy like before. Sometimes she still worries, but she's learning to let go just like I am.
As for Liam
We're still… us.
Different, but good.
He comes by after school, helps me sort canvases for my application. He's patient now, steady. When I'm anxious, he doesn't try to fix it; he just stays.
And that, I think, is love in its truest form not the fireworks, but the quiet kind that holds you steady when you start to shake.
Maya and I still text. Not often, but enough. She's in London, thriving volunteering at a youth centre, posting photos of her life that look bright and full.
Once, she wrote: "You're glowing again. Keep going."
And I have.
On the evening before graduation, I walk back to the lake one last time.
The sky is bruised with colour violet, rose, gold melting into blue. The bridge is still there, though the railings are rusted now.
I sit on the grass, sketchbook on my knees, pencil between my fingers.
On the page, I draw the lake, the bridge, the ripples catching light. Then, almost without thinking, I add two small figures a girl and a boy, standing a few feet apart, facing the same horizon.
That's how it ends.
Not with a kiss.
Not with a grand promise.
Just two people who found a way to forgive, to grow, to begin again.
When I close the sketchbook, the world feels still.
The wind hums softly through the trees, and I whisper to the fading light
"Thank you. For everything."
Because I finally understand what Maya meant that night:
Some bridges aren't meant to be burnt just rebuilt stronger.
And as I walk home, the petals fall like quiet applause around me.
Full circle.
Chapter Twelve — The Summer Between
Florence smelt of paint, peaches, and possibility.
The air was always warm even at dawn, when the light slipped through shutters like silk. The city hummed, a living artwork of sound and colour. Street violins in the distance. The chatter of tourists. The clink of cups in tiny cafés.
I'd never felt so small, or so alive.
The art school was nestled just off Piazza Santa Croce, an old stone building that looked like it had absorbed centuries of stories. Inside, the walls were speckled with colour remnants of past students, paint that refused to leave no matter how often they scrubbed.
Our mornings began with studio work: still life, figure studies, and afternoons in the courtyard where the olive trees leaned towards the sun.
I was nervous at first my accent, my shyness, my sketchbook full of half-finished thoughts. But no one seemed to notice. Or maybe they did and chose kindness instead.
That's where I met him.
Elliot Rossi.
He was standing by an easel near the window, paintbrush balanced between his fingers, brown curls falling into his eyes. His smile was quiet not charming in the obvious way, but easy, like it belonged there.
"You're Tara, right? The girl from London?" he asked, his English smooth but soft with Italian rhythm.
I nodded. "Sort of. Surrey, actually."
"Ah," he said, pretending to ponder. "More countryside soul than city chaos."
I laughed before I meant to, and something in his grin told me he was pleased about that.
Over the next few weeks, we fell into rhythm.
He'd save me a seat in the courtyard, sharing tiny espresso cups between classes. He spoke about colours the way poets talk about heartbreak as if every shade meant something personal.
Once, he said, "Blue isn't sadness. It's peace trying to understand itself."
I wrote it down in my journal that night.
We wandered the city when classes ended.
He took me to markets where the air smelt of lemons and soap, to bridges that glowed orange at sunset. I sketched while he read quietly beside me, the kind of silence that made my chest ache in the best way.
He never asked about the past, and I never offered though sometimes I caught him looking at me as if he knew I'd been broken before.
One evening, as we walked by the Arno, the wind tangled my hair, and I laughed, turning away from the spray of water. Elliot caught my wrist gently, tucking a loose strand behind my ear.
"You look like you belong here," he said softly.
I wanted to tell him that I'd never belonged anywhere before not in Maplewood, not even in my own heart but here, in this strange and sunlit city, something had started to heal.
Instead, I whispered, "Maybe I finally do."
That night, I couldn't sleep. The ceiling fan hummed softly, and I opened my sketchbook again.
On the page, I drew him the slope of his shoulders, the calm in his eyes, the way he always seemed to listen even when I didn't speak.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel haunted by what came before.
This wasn't about replacing anyone.
It was about becoming someone new.
When the summer began to fade, I knew I'd have to return home soon.
The thought made my chest ache not in heartbreak, but in gratitude.
On my last day, Elliot walked me to the train station.
He handed me a folded paper a sketch of the two of us sitting on the bridge, side by side, watching the river turn gold.
"It's not goodbye," he said in his quiet way. "Just a different kind of beginning."
And for once, I didn't cry. I smiled, pressed the drawing to my chest, and whispered, "Thank you for teaching me that I could be more than my past."
He didn't answer. He just touched my hand, brief and gentle, and I knew
some people don't stay to fill a space; they arrive to help you find it.
As the train pulled away, Florence shimmered behind me sunlight on water, laughter in alleys, art drying in open air.
And I realised the summer between what was and what could be had finally made me whole.
Chapter Thirteen — What We Leave Behind
Liam
Some mornings, Maplewood feels emptier than it should.
Not quiet just missing something.
I walk past the lake on my way to work, and the ripples always remind me of her laughter the kind that used to echo across the water when we were fifteen and thought the world began and ended at that bridge.
She's in Florence now.
I know because she sends postcards to Mum sometimes. She never writes much just "It's beautiful here. Hope you're both well."
But I can tell from her handwriting that she's lighter.
And that's enough.
I work at a local print shop now. It's not glamorous, but I like it the smell of ink, the hum of the machines. Sometimes when customers come in with art prints, I think of Tara and how she used to talk about light as if it were alive.
I still see Maya sometimes. She's moved into a flat near the old part of town. She volunteers at the youth centre, teaches art to younger kids. Funny how everything circles back.
When I see her, it isn't awkward anymore. Just two people who went through something messy and decided not to let it ruin them.
One evening, she came by the shop just before closing. She was holding a flyer bright yellow, full of paint splashes.
"It's for an exhibition next month," she said. "Youth art, all local submissions. I thought you might want to come. Tara's name's on the poster."
I stared at it for a long moment. Tara Daniels 'Bridges and Beginnings'.
She'd submitted something.
"Of course she did," I murmured. "She always had that spark."
Maya smiled soft, understanding. "You should go. She deserves to see that you never stopped believing in her."
Maya
I used to think healing was about forgetting.
Now I know it's about remembering differently.
Tara and I aren't friends in the way we once might've been. But when I think of her, I don't feel guilt anymore just gratitude. She changed me, even through the hurt.
The kids at the art centre call me Miss Cruz. They paint dragons, flowers, and skies that shouldn't exist. Sometimes I see Tara's influence in them the way she used to draw not what she saw, but what she felt.
And I realise… maybe she gave a little of that to me too.
One rainy afternoon, as I locked up the centre, I got a message.
A photo of a sunset pink and gold, taken from a train window. No caption.
I didn't need one.
Some things don't need words to be understood.
Liam
At the exhibition, her work hung in the centre of the gallery soft watercolours of bridges, skies, and the faint outlines of two figures standing side by side.
I stood there for a long time. The brushstrokes were gentle, deliberate. And at the bottom, in small handwriting, it said:
"Dedicated to the ones who helped me cross."
I didn't need to ask who she meant.
Maya stood beside me, both of us quiet.
"Beautiful," she said softly.
I nodded. "She always was."
As we left the gallery, I felt the last piece of something settle inside me not sadness, not longing. Just peace.
Because what we leave behind isn't always loss.
Sometimes, it's the proof that we've changed.
Epilogue — The Letter I Never Sent
Dear Liam,
I never knew how to begin this, so I'll just start where everything began by the lake.
The one where we used to throw stones and count how many times they skipped before sinking.
Back then, I thought growing up meant losing people.
Now I know it's about learning how to carry them differently.
Italy feels like another lifetime.
The air there smelled like paint and jasmine, and every street felt alive. For the first time, I didn't look for someone else to tell me who I was. I just… listened.
You'd laugh if you saw me now. My hair's shorter, my smile's different, and I've finally learnt to hold a pencil without shaking. I've stopped drawing what I lost I draw what I've found.
Do you remember when you said, "You can't erase things that matter"?
You were right. But I've realised you can rewrite them into something beautiful.
Maya and I have spoken a few times.
She's doing well helping kids paint their dreams, literally.
I think you'd both be proud of how far you've come. I am.
Sometimes I wonder if you ever stand by the lake still.
If you do, look down at the water. You'll see it the reflection of every version of us that ever existed. Two friends, one heartbreak, a thousand memories. And somehow, they all still fit.
There's someone new in my life Elliot.
He doesn't know everything about my past, but he understands enough.
He listens quietly, paints beside me, and re
minds me that love doesn't have to hurt to be real.
But you, Liam, were my first chapter the one that taught me what love meant, even when it broke me.
And for that, I'll always be grateful.
I won't send this letter.
It belongs here, in my sketchbook, between the pages of unfinished drawings and pressed petals from Florence.
Because some words aren't meant to be read just written, so they stop echoing inside.
Thank you for being my beginning.
This right now is my becoming.
With love,
Tara
The ink fades into silence.
Outside, the world hums softly trains, laughter, rain on glass.
And for the first time, Tara closes her sketchbook without looking back.
[END].