Chapter Two: Hours Before Everything Changed
1325 Words
“Isla,” she said, still not looking at him.
Noah turned the name over in his mind like a stone skipping water. It felt delicate and strong all at once.
“Pretty name,” he said casually.
She smirked, sipping her drink. “Thanks. My mom picked it out of a poetry book. She was going through a Sylvia Plath phase.”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “That’s... ominous.”
“Tell me about it.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment—not awkward, just present. The music buzzed low, someone laughed behind them, and a breeze stirred the fairy lights like they were trying to blink something into focus.
Noah took a sip of his drink. “So, Isla... do you always sit alone at parties?”
She finally turned to face him, brow slightly raised. “Do you always approach women sitting alone at parties?”
“Only the ones who look like they’re about to run away.”
She gave a short laugh. “That obvious?”
He shrugged. “I’m a good guesser.”
“More like a good liar.”
Noah tilted his glass toward hers. “Fair.”
They clinked—softly, the kind of toast that didn’t need a reason.
One drink turned into two.
Then three.
At some point, she’d stretched her legs out and slipped off her heels. He’d taken off his jacket and draped it behind him. They weren’t leaning in close yet, but their knees brushed now and then, accidental and electric.
“So,” Noah said, swirling what was left of his drink. “What’s your great escape? Everyone here has one.”
Isla hesitated. Then she looked up at the sky, like she was talking to the stars and not him.
“London,” she said. “I leave in six days.”
“Ah. Running away”
“Exactly.” She paused. “Psych grad school.”
Noah let out a low whistle. “Damn. Smart and mysterious.”
“Don’t forget emotionally constipated,” she added dryly.
He grinned. “A triple threat.”
“What about you?”
He hesitated longer than she did.
“Architecture,” he said finally. “But... I quit.”
Her eyes flicked to him. “Why?”
He leaned back a little, letting his head rest against the wall behind them. “Because I started designing things I didn’t believe in. Empty buildings. Shiny lies.”
“And now?”
“Now I take pictures. Mostly of strangers.”
She studied him for a long second, her expression unreadable.
“Do you ask their permission?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes the moment’s too honest to interrupt.”
She let that linger.
Then, grinning—just a little—“Sounds like a poetic excuse for being a creep.”
“Guilty.”
They laughed. The kind of laugh that echoed lightly, like it wasn’t used to being out this late.
By the time drink four rolled in, Isla had leaned her head against the backrest, eyes glassy with warmth and wine. Noah sat beside her, both of them quieter now, their conversation slowing into drifting thoughts.
“I’m not usually like this,” she said.
“Drunk?”
“No. Open.”
Noah didn’t say anything right away. He looked out at the skyline. “Maybe it’s the altitude.”
She smiled. “Maybe it’s the rum.”
And maybe, Isla didn’t say, maybe it’s you.
He turned his head, watching her carefully. “Can I ask you something kind of personal?”
She blinked. “Aren’t you already?”
He smirked. “What are you hoping to find out there?”
Isla went still.
She didn’t have a clean answer. She could say knowledge. She could say purpose. She could say she wanted to fix things in people so she didn’t have to deal with her own mess.
Instead, she whispered, “I don’t know. But I’m afraid if I don’t go, I’ll regret it forever.”
Noah nodded, as if he understood something unspoken.
“I get that,” he said softly. “Sometimes regret feels heavier than loneliness.”
And that was when it happened—something almost imperceptible. The shift. That tilt in the night when two people stop being strangers.
“Come on,” Isla said, standing suddenly.
Noah blinked. “Where are we going?”
She wobbled slightly and steadied herself on the edge of the seat. “Anywhere but here. Before this place starts to feel too good and I forget I’m supposed to leave.”
He hesitated for just a second before getting up. “Let me guess—you’re not the type to stay once you start liking something.”
“Exactly,” she said, already heading for the stairs.
He followed her down into the warm hush of the street. The bars nearby were thinning out. Laughter echoed down alleyways, someone was playing an out-of-tune guitar near a food cart, and the air smelled faintly of rain and fried chicken.
They walked without a map, just letting the night guide them.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” she said suddenly.
Noah shoved his hands into his pockets. “What is this, rooftop truth or dare?”
“No dare. Just truth.” She glanced over. “Unless you’re too scared.”
He chuckled. “Fine. I used to imagine my buildings had souls. Like, when I was a kid. I'd draw them with windows for eyes and doors for mouths. Some looked sad. Some looked like they wanted to be something else.”
Isla tilted her head. “That’s actually kind of beautiful.”
“Yeah, well, it made me weird in school.”
“Weird is underrated,” she said.
They turned a corner and stumbled onto a dimly lit basketball court behind a school. The gate was slightly ajar.
Isla pushed it open without asking. “Let’s rest.”
They sat on the faded center circle of the court. The paint was chipped, the concrete cracked. The world was quiet except for the low hum of a distant tricycle engine and the buzz of streetlights overhead.
Noah lay back, arms tucked under his head. “It’s so ugly it’s nice.”
Isla lay beside him, their shoulders just barely brushing. “It’s honest.”
They stared up at the stars.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Hm?”
“Something you’ve never told anyone.”
She swallowed. “Sometimes I feel like... no matter where I go, I’ll always be halfway gone. Like I’ve never been fully present in a place. Or with someone. Not really.”
Noah didn’t answer right away. But he turned his head toward her.
“You’re here now,” he said.
She turned to face him too.
“So are you.”
The silence between them this time wasn’t empty. It was weighted. Soft. Fragile.
“I don’t want to think too much,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“Then don’t.”
Noah reached for her hand. Their fingers touched—slowly, deliberately. She didn’t pull away.
They stayed like that, palm to palm, as the night settled deeper.
The kiss didn’t come all at once. It unfolded in heartbeats—a glance to a gaze, a breath caught between them, the slight tilt of a mouth. When it finally happened, it wasn’t desperate or sloppy. It was careful. Like two people kissing for the first time in a language they didn’t know they spoke.
Isla pulled away first, eyes still closed. “This is dangerous,” she said.
“I know.”
“We’re leaving pieces of ourselves here.”
“I know.”
And then, softer—like a confession she couldn’t hold in:
“I don’t want to forget this.”
“You won’t,” Noah said.
- Writer
