Olivia had thought herself so grown.

They all laughed, trying to fit onto a bench as if they were still adolescents. Olivia held the cotton candy, watching it glow softly under the Christmas lights.

Petunia reached in with her fingers and tore off a piece of the sugar cloud.

A drop fell.

Straight onto Olivia’s new jeans.

As her head lowered to stare at the pink stain, and then rose again, ready to ask for tissues.

She saw it.

As if a mirage coming into life.

Miller.

Out of place.
Thrown into her space.

He had been contained for so long. Reduced to a bus stop, a routine, a few messages.
Not a real part of her life.

A few titles come to mind.

Her childhood best friend.
A boy from her hometown.
Her first love.

A boy she somehow still enjoyed the presence, some days of the week, on the bus.

He was spaces and moments.
Not a person she truly knew anymore.

And as the mirage became clearer.

She saw her. 

His arm was around a girl’s shoulders. She whispered something and laughed, the kind of laugh that went on infinitely.

And the girl was not Serina.

The air around her was still. Not dull. Not plain.
Just… human.

And for a second Olivia thought, almost stupidly:

If it was going to be someone with brunette hair and a shy laugh…
it could have been me all along.

Serina had been a special kind of person.
The kind who entered a room and made the world shift.
Sparkles, attention, maturity, ease.

Serina was a dream.
A heroine.

You know the kind of humans who simply are?

This new girl was not that.

She was still beautiful.
She had grace, light brown freckles scattered across her cheeks, a crooked smile that belonged only to her.

Tiny.
Adorable.

And suddenly Olivia understood:

Life was not a novel after all.

With cotton candy on her pants, she watched them.

A mirror image, of Olivia's own normalcy.

Girlish dresses, artistic hands, soft expressions.

Miller noticed her immediately.

His smile warmed his entire face, and he waved like he could clear the clouds from the sky.

“Liv! Liv!” he called. He said her name like it belonged to him
“You didn’t tell me yesterday on the bus you were coming here!”

And as he smiled, Olivia realised, once again, as if she were eighteen again: His smile was not for her.

Not really.

Later, her friends found the girl’s Instagram.
She painted.
She was bookish.
And in her highlights was the very faerie book Olivia had once told Miller about.

And in that moment, Olivia understood:

He wasn’t smiling at her.

He was smiling through her.

Thinking about the stories he had heard from someone else.

And he didn’t introduce them.
He didn’t need to.

Olivia didn’t either. She simply smiled ahead.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” she said awkwardly.

Her friends stared, curious glances and giggles spreading between them.

“Well,” Miller said, smiling again, tilting his head toward the girl.
“See you another day. I’m busy, as you can see.”

The girl smiled too.

It was all smiles.

Her friends chuckled out loud.

Olivia didn’t.

She watched as the pink blemish ruined her saturated blue jeans.