That routine repeated.

It was as if she had gone back in time.

Time was unfrozen. A crack in the ice just enough for them to fit into their old places again.

She told him about the newest books she had read. The popular series. The ones everyone was talking about.

And Miller listened.

Olivia forgot, for a moment, all he made her undure.

Because being witty did not mean being immune to being engulfed by the magic of first loves.

He showed her how grown-up he had become. He went out. Videos, and videos of parties, of getting blackout drunk.
Of being part of the group that was cool in school

Olivia was still herself. An introvert, who spoke too much once comfortable. Someone who loved tea time, and her multiple hobbies.

“I’ve been reading this book,” she babbled on, one day.
“It’s faerie-themed. I still don’t know if I like the main guy. He’s so mean to her.”

She giggled.

“Sounds like your type,” he teased.

“Excuse me?” She pretended to be offended. “I like emotionally complex men.”

“Sure,” he smiled. “With tragic backstories and anger issues.”

“And hidden soft hearts,” she added quickly.

“Obviously.”

That smile.
The one she always took as proof that she mattered.

A smile she interpreted as she pleased.

They were friends again. 

He still cherished her.

Or at least, she wanted to believe he did.

As if a book being written, page after page, without her knowing the story was already set.

One day, it rained. 

They reached the stop where they would separate.
Different buses.
Different directions.

The kind of rain that soaked flower pots and made the streets smell alive.
They shared an umbrella, walking closer than necessary.

She felt enchanted looking up at him.

“You’re such a homebody,” he said. “You probably love this. Romantic rain, tragic atmosphere.”

“I do not live in a castle,” she protested.
“Not everything needs kings and princesses.”

“Liar. Your books are full of them.”

“Only when they suffer first,” she smiled.

She tilted the umbrella toward him so he wouldn’t get wet. Sheltering them from the world for that brief moment. 

“You’re going to catch a cold,” he laughed.

“So will you,” she replied, continuing anyway.

Because she cared.

About plants.
About housing prices.
About his well-being.

She was kind to a fault.

And somehow, that was her flaw.

Is love to always be given? Because she always did. 

She remembered everything well.

Crafting memories with a tenderness, a longing she often hated.

With hope.

Sometimes she wished she didn’t.
Wished she could forget more easily.

To be less resilient in the face of disappointment.

And then...

The Christmas market happened.