You don’t have to fight it.

Tina’s voice is quiet, but it fills the room like smoke. The candles float, their violet flames flickering in time with my pulse. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, the black book open in her lap, pages shifting under her fingers. Her eyes glow faintly—gold, like old streetlights through fog.

I try to step back. My body won’t listen.

My knees hit the floor.

It doesn’t hurt. It feels… right.

“You’ve been doing this for weeks,” I say. My voice shakes. “The dreams. The way I keep showing up here without remembering how.”

She doesn’t deny it. Just watches me. A strand of black hair falls across her face. She doesn’t brush it away.

“I didn’t want to force you,” she says. “But you were always looking *past* me. At everyone else. At anyone else.”

Her hand lifts. My chin rises to meet it.

Her fingers brush your cheek, and warmth floods your chest

It’s not magic. Not just magic. It’s memory. The way she laughed when I tripped in gym class. How she waited every day by the lockers, even when I didn’t show. The note she slipped me in tenth grade: You’re the only one who gets me.

“I see you now,” I say.

Do I mean it?

Yes.

No.

I don’t know.

But my hands move on their own, reaching for hers.

She smiles. Small. Real. The kind she used to hide.

“Then stay,” she says.

The candles burn brighter.

The book hums.

And I don’t pull away.