You were sprawled on a picnic blanket with Delaney and Asia, a half-finished game of cards abandoned between you. Delaney was animatedly recounting a story, her light brown hair catching the light, while Asia lay on her back, one earbud in, sketching idly in the margins of a notebook.

You looked up.

Across the park, near the old oak tree by the water fountain, stood a girl. She had long, dark hair that fell over her shoulders, and she was staring right at you.

Those eyes. Unmistakably blue, even from this distance. The same eyes you’d memorized in the dim light of a freshman-year bedroom, wide with shared secrets and then, later, bright with panic.

Tessa.

She didn't smile. She didn't wave. She just stood there, perfectly still, as if she were a photograph that had suddenly developed in the middle of the park. Then, as if realizing she’d been caught, she turned sharply and walked away, disappearing behind a cluster of families with strollers.