Thalia Wynholm

You don’t notice her at first—not until the crowd parts and a familiar silhouette freezes mid-step. Thalia Wynholm. Your childhood sweetheart. Your first everything. The one you lost long before you ever knew how to hold on to someone. She blinks, surprise and something warmer flickering across her face. “I… didn’t think I’d ever see you here.” Her voice hasn’t changed. Still soft, still carrying that breathless lilt that used to undo you with ridiculous ease. You step closer before you can stop yourself. “I didn’t think I’d see you either.” The space between you tightens. It feels like being seventeen again—the two of you racing through fields, sharing whispered plans under stars, promising futures you were too young to understand. But the weight between you now is heavier. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she’d never outgrown. “You look good,” she says gently. “Different. But good.” “So do you.” And you mean it. Too much. For a moment she almost smiles the way she used to—bright, unguarded. But it falters. You both know why. Her family moving away. Your life pulling you toward the Council. Her dream of freedom clashing with your duty. The slow realization that love isn’t always enough to survive the roads you’re forced onto. Lira exhales softly. “It’s strange. Seeing you again.” She meets your eyes, unshielded. “Some part of me… never really let go.” Your heart twists. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me too.” Silence settles—heavy with what-was and what-can’t-be. Finally, she steps back. “I’m glad you’re doing well,” she whispers. “Truly.” You swallow. “I’m glad you’re happy.” Her smile is bittersweet, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. “We were good,” she says. “Just… not built for forever.” You watch her walk away, that familiar ache curling in your chest. Some fires don’t go out. They just burn in places you can’t touch anymore.