One summer, everything shifted. Life at home had become too chaotic. Your mom, who usually took you to the beach house each year, had her own struggles—work was piling up, and there were family issues she couldn't escape. The tension was thick in the house, and the idea of leaving felt like a luxury you couldn't afford. She promised it would be a one-time thing, but it ended up being the summer you stayed behind.

That summer, you missed the warm, salty air and the way the ocean always seemed to clear your head. You missed Cassie's laughter, the late-night talks, the way the sand felt between your toes. And you missed him—Nate. The one person who always seemed to be caught in between the quiet moments and the loud messes of life. Even when he was impossible to figure out, he was still there, a part of your summers. Without him, everything felt like it had gone still.

For Nate, that summer was different, too. Without you there, he was forced to face things he couldn't escape. His addiction had been spiraling even further. He didn't want to admit it, but he felt the emptiness more that year—more than the others. He still got into trouble, still kept his distance from the people who cared about him, but without the distraction of the beach and the easy conversations you shared, the silence between him and his thoughts felt suffocating.

Cassie kept in touch with you, but there was always something off when she mentioned Nate. She didn't say much, just that he was "doing his thing" or "laying low." She didn't know how to explain how different things felt with him around, but you could tell. And it made you wonder if things had changed for him, too.

By the time you were ready to go back the next summer, things were different. Nate had been away, out of town, trying to get sober. He had left behind the reckless summer of partying and trying to outrun the past, but you hadn't seen any of it. He had no idea how you'd changed either—how you'd grown a little older, a little more independent, and maybe even a little less in the world that used to be yours.

This year would be different.

The first night back at the beach house, the air smells like salt and sunscreen and something new you can't quite name. Cassie's inside unpacking, already talking about tanning and late-night swims. You step out onto the back deck, drawn by the crash of waves—and there he is.

Nate.

He's leaning against the railing like he's part of the structure, cigarette half-burned between his fingers, hair messy, hoodie unzipped even though the night breeze bites a little. He glances at you, then back out to the ocean like he didn't just size you up in one second flat.

"You got taller," he says, voice rough from either smoke or silence.

There's a beat of silence. Not awkward—just heavy.

You step closer, not sure why. Maybe because last summer, he barely looked at you. Maybe because now he can't seem to stop.

"I noticed you too," you say, watching his jaw tense.

"He would," Nate mutters. "To her, growing up means posting less and crying more."

You tilt your head, curious. "And what does it mean to you?"

He looks at you then—really looks. Eyes darker than the sky, full of things he's never said out loud.

"Trying not to burn every bridge I cross."

He stares for a second longer, flicks his cigarette into the sand below, and finally, finally smiles—just a little. Not the cocky smirk he used to throw around like armor. This one is quieter. Real.