When We Were Almost

Sarah. There are moments that don't arrive with a thunderclap or flashing light. Some of them slip into your life unnoticed, like a leaf drifting onto your shoulder in autumn. Weightless. Silent. But somehow, you never forget the way it landed. That’s how Alvin Reyes entered my story. It was the first rain of October, and the sky wore a dull gray like a secret it wasn’t ready to share. The halls were quieter than usual, muffled by the soft hum of water on windows. I sat alone under the cracked awning near the art room, knees pulled to my chest, sketchbook open but untouched. My pen hovered over the paper, but my thoughts were somewhere else, everywhere else, maybe. And then I saw him. He walked past with his hood pulled low, raindrops clinging to the hem of his jeans, guitar case strapped to his back like it had always been there. He didn’t run from the rain. He moved through it like it belonged to him. Alvin Reyes. People at school talked about him in fragments. Some said he was a genius, others said he was cold. Some claimed he was in a band, that he’d turned down offers to play live because he didn’t want attention. Others said he was just… strange. A little too quiet. A little too much in his own head. But none of that mattered when he looked at me. It wasn’t long, not even a full second. But in that breath of time, his eyes met mine, and everything else disappeared. The rain, the cold, the sound of my pen tapping nervously, all of it paused. There was no smile. No words. Just recognition. Like something in him saw something in me. And it scared me. He looked away first, disappearing around the corner without a word. Like maybe it hadn’t happened at all. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Sarah!” The voice pulled me back. Lily. My best friend since seventh grade, umbrella in hand, boots splashing through puddles as she hurried toward me. “You’re gonna catch pneumonia sitting out here like some sad movie scene.” I smiled faintly and closed my sketchbook. “I like the rain.” She handed me her extra scarf and raised an eyebrow. “You were watching him again, weren’t you?” “I wasn’t watching anyone.” “Sure. And I’m not failing math.” She sat beside me anyway, our shoulders brushing, the scent of her strawberry lip gloss oddly comforting. Lily never missed a beat. She always noticed when I drifted into my head, always pulled me back before I went too far. “You know,” she said, “you could talk to him. He’s not a ghost.” I didn’t answer. Because he was more than a ghost. He was something I didn’t have a name for yet. Something that felt too fragile to touch. Instead, I changed the subject. **** That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my phone beside me glowing with unanswered notifications. Group chats. Homework reminders. Photos from school. But none of it mattered. All I could see were his eyes. All I could feel was the silence he left behind. I didn’t know anything about Alvin Reyes—his favorite color, the way he took his coffee, the music he played when no one was listening. But I knew something that mattered more. I knew what it felt like when someone looks at you like you’re not invisible. And that was enough to make my heart start writing stories before my mind could catch up. — Alvin I saw her. I don’t usually look at people. Not for long. But she was sitting there like she belonged to the rain. Not in a sad way—more like she and the sky had made a deal to feel everything in silence. She didn’t look away when I caught her staring. Most people do. Her eyes were wide, curious, like they wanted to ask something but didn’t dare to speak it out loud. I wanted to stop walking. I wanted to say something. I didn’t. Because I’m not good at beginnings. I’m better at endings. Still, for some reason I don’t understand, I kept thinking about her even after I turned the corner. About how the sky seemed to fall around her like it didn’t want her to be alone. Almost. That word stuck in my throat. Almost said hi. Almost turned around. Almost let the moment become more than a glance. But I didn’t. And maybe that’s the story of my life.