Emma opened a box marked High School and found an old workbook, cover worn, corners bent. She smiled faintly, bitterly. This book had been her companion through late-night study sessions, her safe place to doodle tiny lilacs in the margins while dreaming of Ethan's smile. She hadn't opened it in years.
On a whim, she flipped through the pages. Near the back, she found a page she didn't remember writing on. Fresh words stared up at her, sharp and black against the yellowed paper.
Who are you? Why are you writing in my book?
Emma's breath caught. She stared, frozen, waiting for the ink to fade—but it didn't. Her hand trembled as she reached for a pen. Slowly, carefully, she scrawled beneath it:
This isn't funny. Who is this?
Seconds ticked by. Then, before her eyes, new words formed:
I'm Ethan Blake. I'm eighteen. Who are you?
Emma dropped the pen. The room spun around her, past and present colliding in a way that made no sense. Clutching the book to her chest, her heart broke all over again.
For the first time in years, she whispered his name aloud, her voice shaking like a prayer: "Ethan…" And she realized that the past had found its way into the present, demanding to be answered.