He looks at me sideways, grinning. “You believe them?”
I think about it for a second. The easy way he talks. The careful way he matches his pace to mine. The way he handed me strawberries like they were something sacred.
“No,” I say finally. “Not really.”
He smiles—not his usual lopsided grin, but something smaller. Realer. “Good.”
We reach the edge of town where the asphalt turns to dirt.The ocean’s scent hits first—salt and something wild. The sound follows, waves folding into the shore like a slow heartbeat.
When the view opens up, I stop walking.
The water stretches. Endless gold spilling across its surface. The horizon looks painted, blurred at the edges, like the world hasn’t decided where to end yet.
“Wow,” I whisper.
Cole glances at me instead of the ocean. “Told you it’s better from down here.”
I drop the paper bag on the sand and slip off my shoes. The sand’s still warm, soft under my toes. “It’s… peaceful.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s why I come here. When everything else gets loud.”
I look at him. “Does it get loud a lot?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Sometimes.”
There’s a pause that doesn’t feel awkward, just full. Like the kind of silence that understands more than words could.
I reach into the bag and pull out a raspberry. “You ever notice how everything tastes better outside?”
He laughs softly. “That a scientific fact?”
“Absolutely,” I say, popping the raspberry into my mouth. “Peer-reviewed and everything.”
He sits beside me, close enough that his knee almost brushes mine. He pulls out a strawberry, holds it between his fingers for a second, then eats it.
“Well, for the sake of science…” He smiles faintly. “Yeah. You might be right.”
We sit there, eating fruit and watching the sun slide lower, trading quiet stories—about school, about his dog that runs away every other day, about the paintings I never show anyone. The kind of conversation that flows too easily, like it’s been waiting for years to happen.
When we reach the boulders, we settle there, close but not too close. The ocean hums in the background, steady and alive.
“So,” he says, glancing at me, “what do you do when you’re not buying fruit or dodging your brothers?”
I laugh softly. “I paint.”
“Yeah? What kind?”
“Landscapes, mostly. Faces sometimes, but I mess them up. People are harder than trees.”
He looks at me for a long second, eyes soft. “I think you’d be better at faces than you think.”
Something in my chest stirs. Maybe it’s the way he says it—like he actually means it. Like he’s seeing me.
I want to say something smart, but all that comes out is a quiet, “Thanks.”
The sun starts to dip, the sky bleeding orange and pink, and it hits me how surreal this all feels. Like I blinked and stepped into a different version of my life. One where I’m not invisible. One where someone finally noticed.
He leans back on his elbows, still watching the waves. “You’re quiet,” he says.
