The next few weeks were a blur of late afternoons and small, electric moments.
Marcus and I spent most of our summer break at his house — playing basketball, gaming, or just talking about everything and nothing. And every time I went over, Sophia seemed to be around.
Sometimes she'd join us for dinner. Sometimes she'd walk past the living room in her oversized sweater, humming under her breath. It always looked effortless, but it never failed to mess with my focus.
I started noticing patterns. The way she'd smile a little too long when we spoke. The way her tone softened when she said my name. Once, she even brushed a strand of hair from my forehead, laughing about how "teenage boys never learn to use a comb."
That touch stayed on my skin for hours.
But then came the confusion — the moments when she'd pull away without warning. Like one evening when I texted her, just to ask if Marcus was home. She left the message on "read" for two days. When I finally saw her again, she acted like nothing had happened.
"You okay?" I asked casually.
"Of course," she said, glancing at me with that unreadable half-smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"
It drove me crazy the way she could light me up and then vanish behind her calm.
After that text, things changed in ways I couldn't quite name. Sophia and I still saw each other, but there was a space between us—something invisible but heavy, like static in the air before a storm.
I started visiting Marcus less often. I told myself it was because of work and college applications, but the truth was simpler: I didn't trust myself around her anymore. Every time I caught a glimpse of her, I wanted to ask what she meant by that message. Don't overthink everything, Ethan.
How could I not?
One afternoon, Marcus invited me to help him repaint their porch. I hesitated, then agreed. When I arrived, Sophia was there with a tray of lemonade, sunlight catching the small gold hoop in her ear. She smiled, but it was different now—careful, polite.
"Hey," she said softly. "Haven't seen you in a while."
"Yeah," I mumbled, dipping my brush in the paint. "Been busy."
Her eyes lingered for a second. "Busy's good."
And that was it. The rest of the day was quiet except for the scrape of brushes and Marcus's random humming. But every time I looked up, Sophia seemed lost in thought too, like we were both waiting for the other to say something brave.
When we finished, she handed me a cold drink. Our fingers almost touched, and that old spark came alive again—only this time, it hurt more than it thrilled.
That night I realized something: sometimes silence isn't distance; it's fear. I wasn't the only one unsure of what came next.