Nostalgia Isn’t What It Used to Be

I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling. The words from Chloe's journal played over and over in my mind. 

We cried, and then we made up. It seemed so simple, so straightforward. Yet, it felt entirely alien to me, like reading a stranger's diary by mistake. Each entry was a window into a life I hadn't lived, filled with emotions I couldn't connect to—not fully.

And then the thought returned, sharp and unrelenting: What if the figure made a mistake? Maybe this wasn't where I was supposed to be. 

Or maybe… maybe I was meant to be here, but not as the person Chloe was supposed to be. A cold wave of fear gripped me. Either way, it didn't matter. I had to keep living her life—or at least pretending to.

The next two days felt like a blur. I went through the motions, slowly learning how to carry myself as Chloe. 

Her body no longer felt as foreign, and I'd gotten used to the little things: the way her hair fell over her shoulders, the softness of her voice, even the way her clothes fit. 

But despite the progress, the sense of displacement lingered. Conversations felt like guessing games, and every interaction carried the risk of exposure.

On the second day, I decided I needed a break from it all. That's how I ended up at the park. Or rather, what used to be the park.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the skatepark as I wandered toward the edge of the concrete jungle. I hovered near the edge of the skatepark, watching the scene unfold. 

The park had changed completely since I'd last been there. Gone were the overgrown fields where Noah and I used to race our bikes and invent stories about secret treasure buried under the swing set. 

In its place was a sprawling skatepark, a sleek expanse of concrete ramps, rails, and half-pipes. The swings were replaced by benches, and the trees that once lined the edges of the park had been trimmed back to make room for the crowds of skaters.

The air smelled of damp pavement and distant fast food, mingling with the sound of laughter and the occasional crash of a skateboard wiping out. 

Teenagers zipped across the ramps with practiced ease, their laughter and shouts blending into a steady hum of activity.

 A group of kids lounged nearby, their colorful skateboards leaning against the bench. They radiated confidence, the kind that made them look untouchable. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of Chloe's hoodie, feeling like an intruder.

 This place had changed so much from what I remembered. The old playground where Noah and I used to sit on swings and plan our next prank had been replaced by ramps and rails, buzzing with energy I didn't quite belong to.

I was just about to retreat into the comforting anonymity of the crowd when a voice rang out, sharp and unmistakably directed at me.

"Hey, Chloe! Over here!"

I turned toward the sound and spotted a group of girls lounging on the edge of a half-pipe. They sat like royalty on their perch, their bodies draped in oversized hoodies and ripped jeans, each exuding a level of confidence I could only fake on a good day.

At first, I couldn't place their faces. They were vaguely familiar in that I've seen you rolling your eyes at every teacher since the sixth grade kind of way. And then it hit me—oh no, it's them. The girls who sat in the back of the classroom like it was their personal VIP section. The ones who spent more time perfecting their sarcastic comebacks than taking notes. They didn't just rebel; they made it look cool, like a full-time job with benefits.

I even remembered the one time I got brave—or stupid—enough to ask one of them for her number. Let's just say I got turned down so fast, I'm pretty sure the air whooshed as the rejection hit me. It was the social equivalent of tripping on my shoelace in front of the entire cafeteria.

And now? Now they were calling out to me.

The girl who had called out to me waved with a lazy sort of enthusiasm. Her name was Dani, if I remembered correctly. She had striking auburn hair that fell in waves over her shoulders and a smirk that hinted she knew more about you than you wanted her to. 

Beside her sat Sasha, petite with a shock of platinum blonde hair, and Jada, whose bright, kaleidoscopic sneakers were somehow louder than her infectious laugh.

For a split second, I thought about pretending I didn't hear them. But Dani's gaze locked on me, sharp and unrelenting, like she'd already decided I wasn't going to escape.

"Chloe, get your butt over here!" she called again, this time with a grin that told me there was no backing out.

I forced a smile and made my way over, trying to appear as casual as they did while navigating the uneven terrain of the park. As I approached, the girls shuffled to make space, though I couldn't tell if it was out of friendliness or some unspoken test.

Dani was the first to speak. "Haven't seen you around here in a while. What, did you finally decide to stop ghosting us?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, yeah. Guess I've just been… busy."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but didn't press further. Instead, she gestured toward the bowl where a group of skaters were showing off their tricks. 

"You still into watching the guys eat pavement, or is that not your thing anymore?"

The others laughed, and I managed a chuckle, though the truth was I had no idea if this was something the original Chloe enjoyed.

Sasha leaned in, her voice conspiratorial. "You know, Caleb's been asking about you. He said you were acting weird at school the other day. Like, more than usual."

The mention of Caleb made my stomach churn, but I forced my expression to stay neutral. That guy was a go-to for snacks, jokes, and new prank ideas. 

He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was always attentive. Could he see through me?

"Oh, really? What did he say?"

"Nothing important," Sasha said with a dismissive wave. "Just that you seemed… different. But, hey, I told him you're probably just leveling up your mysterious girl vibe."

Jada snorted. "Mysterious? Please. Chloe's about as mysterious as an open book."

They all laughed, and I couldn't help but feel like the punchline of a joke I didn't quite understand.

As the conversation continued, I tried to keep up, nodding and smiling at the right moments, but I felt like I was wading through quicksand. 

They talked about people I didn't recognize, parties I hadn't attended, and inside jokes that only made sense to them.

At one point, Dani nudged me with her elbow, her expression softening slightly. "You good, though? You've been kind of off lately. You know you can talk to us, right?"

The sincerity in her tone caught me off guard, and for a moment, I thought about opening up, about telling them the truth—or at least part of it. But the weight of the secret I carried pressed down on me, silencing the words before they could form.

"Yeah," I said instead, forcing another smile. "I'm good. Just… adjusting."

Dani studied me for a moment, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly, but then she shrugged. "Alright, if you say so. But don't go pulling some disappearing act again, okay? We missed you."

"Sure," I lied, feeling like an imposter in my own life.

The girls eventually shifted their attention back to the skaters, their laughter filling the air as they critiqued tricks and shouted encouragement. I stayed with them, but my mind wandered.

That's when I saw him.

Noah was standing near the edge of the skatepark, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. His dark hair was longer than I remembered, curling slightly at the ends. He looked older, more serious, like someone who'd grown up too fast.

 He was watching the skaters with a distant expression, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller.

His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on the distant horizon. For a moment, I thought about leaving him alone, about avoiding another conversation that could spiral into awkwardness or, worse, outright rejection. 

But something about the way he stood there—hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched—made it impossible to walk away.

I hesitated before approaching, debating my opening line as if it were the most important decision of my life. Finally, I settled on something simple. "Hey."

Noah's head jerked up, his eyes meeting mine with a flicker of surprise. "Oh, hey," he said, his voice low and careful, like he wasn't sure where this was going.

I took a step closer, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "You hiding out over here?"

He shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Maybe. Needed a break from the chaos."

"Skatepark chaos or life chaos?" I asked, attempting to keep my tone light.

His smirk faded, and for a moment, he looked at me like I'd hit a nerve. "Both, I guess."

I shifted awkwardly, glancing at the ground. The easy banter we used to have felt so far away now, replaced by this strange, tentative tension. "I almost didn't recognize this place," I said, gesturing to the skatepark. "It's so different now."

"Yeah, a lot's changed," Noah replied, his gaze drifting back toward the ramps and rails. "Feels like a different world sometimes."

"Tell me about it," I murmured, more to myself than him.

Noah glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, his brow furrowing slightly. "You've been different lately," he said, his tone careful but probing.

I froze for a moment, my heart skipping a beat. "Different how?"

"I don't know. Just… different." He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping to the ground. "You're quieter. Not as—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Never mind."

"Not as what?" I pressed, my curiosity piqued.

He hesitated, his jaw tightening like he was debating whether to say it. "Not as... confident," he said finally, though the word sounded like a placeholder for something else. "It's not bad or anything. Just... noticeable."

I swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. "I guess people change," I said lamely.

"Yeah," he said, his voice quieter now. "People change."

There was a beat of silence, and I found myself studying him—his slouched posture, the way his hands fidgeted with the edge of his shirt, the faint crease in his brow. He wasn't just guarded; he seemed conflicted, like he was wrestling with something he couldn't quite say.

"You've changed too," I said, and his head snapped up to meet my gaze.

"Have I?" he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and something softer, almost vulnerable.

I nodded. "You're… I don't know. More serious, I guess. Less... Noah."

He let out a quiet laugh, though it lacked any real humor. "Maybe that's just growing up."

"Or maybe it's something else," I said, testing the waters.

His eyes flicked to mine, holding my gaze for a moment too long before he looked away. "Maybe," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The air between us felt charged, like we were both waiting for the other to say something that would tip the balance. Finally, he spoke again, his voice steadier now. "You remember that prank you pulled in middle school? The one with the fake detention slips?"

I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. "Yeah, of course. You were so mad at me for that."

"Mad doesn't even cover it," he said with a small grin, though there was a hint of something bittersweet in his expression. "You made me miss out on the first half of the talent show because I thought I was in trouble."

I laughed nervously, the memory coming back to me in flashes. "I thought it was funny at the time."

He nodded, his gaze distant. "Yeah, I bet you did." There was no malice in his tone, but something about the way he said it made my chest tighten.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "For that and... maybe other things too."

Noah looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had faded away. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held a depth that made my stomach flip. "You don't have to apologize," he said softly. "Not for that."

"What about everything else?" I asked, my voice just as soft.

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground again. "I don't know. Some things are harder to let go of."

I wanted to press him, to ask what he meant, but the vulnerability in his voice stopped me. Instead, I said, "I get it. I really do."

He nodded, but the tension between us didn't break. If anything, it seemed to grow heavier, filled with unspoken words and lingering emotions neither of us knew how to name.

After a long pause, Noah cleared his throat and took a step back. "I should go. Got some stuff to do."

"Yeah," I said quickly, trying to hide my disappointment. "Of course."

But as he turned to leave, he hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. "Hey, Chloe?"

"Yeah?"

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, shaking his head. "Never mind. See you around."

And just like that, he was gone, leaving me standing there with a thousand questions.

By the time I made it back home, my mind was swirling with thoughts of Noah, the park, and the unease that followed me like a shadow. I flopped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling as if it could somehow give me clarity.

What did Noah mean about "leaving some things behind"? And what exactly had Chase—had I—done to him that left such a scar?

For all his quiet demeanor, Noah's words had been loaded, almost like a secret he wanted to share but couldn't. It wasn't like him. Or maybe this wasn't like me. As Chase, we'd always been upfront with each other, even when it hurt. But now, as Chloe, I was facing walls I hadn't known were there before.

The guilt sat heavy in my chest. I'd never stopped to think about how my actions as Chase might've affected Noah—or anyone, for that matter. It was easier to brush things off with jokes or excuses, but now, seeing the hurt in his eyes, I realized just how blind I'd been.

"I'll fix this," I muttered to myself, before sitting up and realizing:

How do I fix a problem I don't even know about?

That night, after dinner, I decided to dig further into Chloe's old things. There had to be something here—something that would help me understand her life better, or at least give me a clue about the connection I shared with these people.

I started with the bookshelf. Chloe—or maybe her mom—had arranged everything so neatly it felt sacrilegious to disturb it. 

Still, I ran my fingers along the spines of books, notebooks, and journals until something caught my eye: a small, battered box wedged into the far corner of the bottom shelf.

Curious, I pulled it out and opened it. Inside were random trinkets: an old friendship bracelet, a tiny seashell. Beneath those was a stack of photos, slightly yellowed at the edges.

I leafed through them slowly. Most were snapshots of Chloe as a kid—on swings, at birthday parties, at school events. It felt unnerving to stare at that little girl's face and realize that was supposed to be me. Like someone badly photoshopped my childhood into someone else's life.

But as I reached the bottom of the pile, one photo stopped me cold.

It was half-torn, jagged at the edges as if someone had ripped it in anger or haste. 

Its edges were frayed as if it had been handled too many times before. I tilted it under the lamplight, studying the faces.

In the center of the group stood a young girl—Chloe. Her face was bright, her hair tied back in messy pigtails, and her arm slung casually around someone just outside the photo's jagged edge.

I blinked as I took this all in. Somehow, seeing young Chloe and connecting it to the fact that she was me now wasn't working in my head. 

I pushed the discomfort aside and continued to study the photograph. There was another kid I could recognize—it was Noah. His lopsided grin was unmistakable, the same one he used to flash whenever he had an idea for a new adventure. But the other boy…

The torn photo didn't show his face. Instead, it stopped abruptly at his neck, as if someone had deliberately removed his identity. All I could see was the collar of a red hoodie and a pair of hands tucked into the pockets of dark jeans. Something about the image felt familiar, though I couldn't place it.

I tilted the photo under the lamplight, squinting as if that would somehow reveal more. My fingers traced the jagged edge where the photo had been ripped. 

It wasn't clean—it looked as though it had been torn in anger or haste, the edges frayed and softened by time. Whoever had done it had wanted to erase this boy, to make him vanish from the memory entirely.

But why?

I flipped the photo over, hoping for a clue, and there it was: a faint scrawl on the back, the ink faded but still legible. Names, written in looping, childish handwriting. "Lily," "Rachel," "Sam," and then at the bottom, smaller and almost hesitant: 

"Chloe and…"

I dropped the torn photograph into my lap, my breath caught in my throat.

Chase.