Tilly
The sun is hanging low over the horizon, painting the beach in golden streaks that bounce off the waves.
The sand is warm under my feet, though somehow it still manages to sneak into every crevice and stick in the most irritating ways.
I love it.
I love the way the salt air smells, the gulls calling, and the faint buzz of the ocean mixing with the distant laughter of other beachgoers.
But what I love the most is playing volleyball with all of The Apartment again.
“Are you ready?” The coach's voice carries over the wind, just loud enough to get us moving.
“Born ready!” Matt yells, sprinting toward the net like his legs are fueled by lightning.
I grin, running after him, sand flying up in little clouds behind each step.
I don’t remember the last time we actually played together like this.
I missed this—the chaos, the noise, the constant joking, and the shared energy.
Playing with just girls was fun, sure, but nothing compared to this.
With Luca and Matt, everything feels… alive.
“You good?” Zara asks, sliding next to me during our break, and gives me a quick side hug.
“Yeah. I actually slept well last night,” I tell her, smiling softly.
Her eyebrows rise, suspicion painting her face. “Really? How long have younotbeen sleeping well?”
I almost choke on my own air, remembering that no one knows about my little nightly routine.
“Uh…I started my period a couple of days ago.” I lie quickly, holding my hands up as if surrendering.
It’s a terrible excuse.
I hate using a period as an excuse, and I know she doesn’t buy it, but it’s better than explaining my brain.
“Okay…” She frowns lightly, and I know I just dodged a bullet.
Little does she know, the truth is more complicated, but… nobody needs to know that.
Yana bounces on the balls of her feet, ponytail swinging like a pendulum. “Guys, why are we not smiling?! We are totally going to win this game.”
Her energy is infectious, and I can’t stop grinning as I adjust my stance in the sand.
There is something about watching her bounce around, completely unbothered by sand in her hair or sweat on her back, that makes me feel like everything is right.
“Promise, I’m fine,” I whisper to Zara, as we prepare for the serve. “Really.”
“Okay, I believe you,” she says, giving me a quick squeeze before stepping back.
The game starts.
The ball flies back and forth across the net, sand kicking up under our feet.
I dive, jump, and sprint in rhythm with everyone else, my lungs burning pleasantly, my arms streaked with sand.
