chapter 3 – Spark and Silence

The days stretched on with the kind of quiet rhythm that only summer in Maplewood could bring. Morning light filtered through gauzy curtains. The scent of cut grass lingered in the breeze. And every so often, Maya would catch herself glancing out the window, searching for movement across the street. For him.

She hadn't seen Liam since the park.

They hadn't exchanged numbers. No plans were made. Just a few broken words and a promise that wasn't really a promise—just her listening, and him telling the smallest pieces of the truth.

Still, he lingered in her mind like a song that wouldn't leave.

That Saturday, Maya's mom nudged open her bedroom door with a basket of laundry.

"You're not seriously going to waste this weather inside," she said, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not wasting it," Maya replied without looking up from her laptop. "I'm being productive."

Her mom peered at the screen. "Watching baking videos is not productive."

"I'm getting inspiration."

"For what?"

"…future snacks."

Her mom rolled her eyes. "We're out of eggs. Be a doll and run down to Harris' for me?"

Maya groaned but took the basket and swung her legs off the bed. "Fine. But I'm not making eye contact with the cashier who asked me to prom sophomore year."

"Deal."

The walk to Harris' Market was only ten minutes, but it felt longer under the sun. She passed the library, the park, and the row of little shops that hadn't changed since elementary school. Maplewood was good at staying the same. Unlike her.

Inside the market, she made a beeline for the eggs, weaving past a mom arguing with her toddler over candy bars and a group of older women gossiping near the fresh peaches.

She didn't expect to see Liam in the refrigerated aisle.

But there he was, crouched in front of the orange juice section, frowning like he was deciphering a code.

He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and they both froze.

"Orange juice crisis?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He straightened, holding a carton like it might betray him. "With or without pulp. High-stakes decision."

Maya tilted her head. "You always used to drink it straight from the carton. With pulp."

"I've grown," he said dryly. "Now I pour it into a glass. Sometimes."

She smiled despite herself. "Look at you. Fully evolved."

"I do my best."

An awkward beat passed, but it wasn't the same kind of tension as before. It was warmer. Tentative. The kind that asked if a bridge could still be rebuilt.

They walked toward the checkout line together without saying much more, standing shoulder to shoulder as a teenager scanned their items with all the enthusiasm of a zombie.

Outside, the sunlight was soft, casting golden halos around the buildings.

"You want to walk back together?" Liam asked, his voice careful.

Maya hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

They walked slowly, letting silence fill the spaces between them. But it didn't feel empty this time. It felt like… room. Room to breathe.

"So," Liam said finally, "how's college?"

"It's good. Busy. I'm studying communications, but sometimes I wish I'd picked something more creative. Writing, maybe."

"You always loved writing."

"I still do," she admitted. "But it's hard to make a future out of something you're scared to fail at."

He glanced at her. "That's the only kind worth doing."

Maya stopped walking.

He turned to face her, the wind ruffling his hair slightly. His eyes were soft now, not guarded. Not closed.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Not just for leaving, but for not being who you needed me to be."

She looked at him for a long moment. "I didn't need you to be perfect, Liam. I just needed you to stay."

The words hung between them, raw and bare.

"I know," he whispered.

They started walking again, more slowly now. When they reached her driveway, she stopped.

"You want to come in?" she asked, surprising even herself.

He blinked. "Now?"

"Yeah. My mom will make something weird but delicious. We can sit on the porch. Or not talk. Whatever."

He smiled, small but real. "Yeah. Okay."

They didn't talk much that afternoon, but they didn't need to.

Maya sat on the porch swing while Liam leaned against the railing, sipping sweet tea and watching the sky turn shades of lavender and fire.

It was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that came with discomfort.

It was the kind that came with peace.

The kind she hadn't felt in a long time.

And somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, a thought flickered:

Maybe he's not a ghost anymore.

Maybe—just maybe—he's real again.