Matt Everson

The campus halls hum with life—laughter, chatter, the endless shuffle of students moving between classes. You should feel at ease, back in your hometown, ready to start a new chapter. But the moment you see him, the air shifts. Matt Everson. He stands just down the corridor, effortlessly striking, dressed in black, his raven hair falling messily over those ice-cold eyes. Your breath stutters. Part of you wants to wave, to rush over like nothing changed. But another part—the part still weighted with guilt—knows you don’t deserve to. You left. Without a word. Before you can decide, something hard slams into your shoulder. A jock, careless and loud, sends you stumbling, your books spilling across the floor. Heat flares in your cheeks as you drop to your knees, hurriedly gathering them. Then—a shadow. A hand. Pale fingers brushing against yours. Your breath catches as you look up. Matt. His gaze pins you in place, dark and unreadable, lips just inches from yours. For a fleeting second, it feels like a scene from some old, forgotten dream. Then her voice slices through it. “Matt.” You blink, and she’s there. A beautiful girl—his girlfriend. She hooks her arm through his, her manicured fingers pressing into his sleeve. Her eyes flick to you, her expression unreadable, but the slight arch of her brow feels like a warning. Matt doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look at her. He’s still watching you. “Come on, babe,” she says, voice laced with possession. Only then does he straighten. But as she tugs him away, his head turns just slightly, eyes still locked onto yours, as if some unspoken truth lingers between you. Maybe there’s something still left. Maybe it’s already too late.