Chapter Six: Under the Lights, Almost
1237 Words
▸ Isa
If you asked Isa Reyes to define her idea of a nightmare, it wouldn’t be monsters or ghosts.
It would be crowds.
Loud music. Shouting. Laughter that felt too forced. People bumping into her shoulder and not noticing. Lights too bright. Noise that made her ears buzz. She didn’t do well with school events, especially ones like this.
So when she unfolded the latest letter from Locker 143 and read the words—
> Dare #5: Go to the Fall Festival.
No hiding. Try just… being there. —143
—her heart dropped like a stone into her stomach.
It took her an entire day to decide. Another to tell Ava she might go. And a third to actually show up.
She arrived just after sundown, the sky dipped in orange and deep lavender, the last light fading behind the Northhill gym. The quad was transformed—twinkling fairy lights hung between trees, booths lined with painted signs, laughter and music floating through the air like glitter.
Isa stood near the gate, hugging her sweater tight around her.
She could leave. No one would notice.
Then she saw someone leaning against the booth just ahead.
Noah.
His black hoodie was gone, replaced by a flannel over a white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He was talking to someone at the snacks stall, arms crossed lazily, but his eyes flicked around the crowd like he was searching.
Searching for… her?
She took a breath and stepped forward.
He noticed her almost instantly.
His brows lifted in surprise, and then—just barely—his mouth tugged into a small smile.
> “Didn’t think you’d show,” he said as she approached.
> “I almost didn’t,” Isa admitted.
> “Why’d you come?”
> “Letter dared me.”
> “Ah,” he said, that small smile deepening. “Figures.”
She glanced around, clutching the sleeves of her sweater. “I feel like I don’t belong here.”
> “You don’t have to belong to anything,” Noah replied calmly. “You just have to be.”
Isa blinked at him.
He said things that shouldn’t have comforted her—but somehow did.
They ended up walking through the booths together.
He didn’t push conversation. He didn’t lead her anywhere. He just stayed beside her—like he always seemed to do when she wasn’t sure where to stand.
At one point, someone from their class called out, “Ooooh! Isa and Noah!” in a teasing tone, and Isa flushed red, nearly tripping over her own feet.
But Noah didn’t say anything—didn’t laugh or get annoyed.
He just looked at her sideways and said, “People talk.”
> “A lot,” she muttered.
> “Let them.”
And somehow, that made her blush even harder.
They stopped at the lantern-making booth, one of the quietest spots tucked beneath an overgrown tree. Small paper lanterns glowed from branches above, swaying gently with the wind.
Isa sat on a bench, tracing the edges of her half-folded paper as her fingers worked.
> “Do you think the person behind the letters comes to these events?” she asked suddenly, unsure why she even voiced the thought.
Noah paused, head tilting slightly. “Probably.”
> “Why do you say that?”
> “Because,” he replied slowly, “if they care enough to write to people who feel invisible, they’d probably want to see if it worked.”
Isa looked at him for a long moment.
The quiet confidence in his voice… the way he didn’t flinch when he said things that felt personal.
> “You talk like you know them.”
> “Maybe I do.”
> “Do you?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
> “Would it matter if I did?”
She didn’t have an answer.
They lit their lanterns and watched them glow under the tree.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just soft music playing from a distance, the rustling of trees, the light of lanterns painting gentle shadows across Noah’s jawline.
Isa turned toward him, clutching her hands together.
> “I used to be different.”
He looked at her. Said nothing. Just… waited.
> “Before I moved here. I used to be louder. Happier. I laughed a lot.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I lost that.”
> “Why?”
She hesitated.
> “People made me feel like I was too much. Too annoying. Too sensitive. So I started trying to disappear.”
He nodded slowly.
> “That’s not your fault.”
> “It felt like it was.”
Noah didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Then:
> “The ones who made you feel small? They were scared of how bright you were. Some people hate things that shine too loudly. Doesn’t mean you should dim yourself.”
Isa’s throat tightened. She blinked hard.
> “Why are you always like this?”
> “Like what?”
> “Saying things that feel like they were written for a book.”
> “Because I watch people. And you’re easy to read.”
> “That’s not a compliment.”
> “It is, coming from me.”
Her lips twitched. She shook her head, laughing softly.
They sat in silence again.
Then Isa looked at him.
Really looked.
And the words were right there on her tongue: I think I like you.
But before she could say anything, Ava came running up to them, yelling something about a group photo and dragging Isa away.
Noah raised his brows, almost amused, and Isa’s heart gave one traitorous flutter before she was pulled into a sea of students and flashing lights.
▸ Noah
He didn’t expect her to come.
But when she did, wrapped in a soft grey sweater and looking like she was ready to vanish into the sidewalk, he couldn’t stop the way his chest eased.
She always looked like she was bracing for something. Like every hallway was a battlefield she didn’t ask to walk through.
But she came.
And that mattered more than anything.
He kept himself steady—calm, composed. That was who he was. That’s what people expected.
But Isa?
Isa made him feel things.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
But like a match struck in a dark room. Warm. Brief. Impossible to ignore.
When she sat with him under the lanterns and told him who she used to be, he didn’t say much.
He didn’t need to.
Because she was saying it not to get sympathy—but to be heard.
And so he listened.
Like always.
After she was dragged away for the photo, Noah stayed on the bench, staring at her lantern as it slowly dimmed.
He knew she almost said something.
He could see it in the way she looked at him. The way her fingers trembled slightly, like words had climbed halfway up her throat and gotten stuck.
He didn’t blame her for stopping.
He could wait.
After all, what they had was slow, like ink spreading across the page. You couldn’t rush ink. You let it flow.
Let it mean something.
And when she was ready to say it, he’d be there.
Just like he always was.
- Writer
