When We Were Almost

ALMOST

SARAH

He looked back.

And it undid me.

I sat at that library table long after Alvin left, watching the space where he’d stood. The words he said clung to the air like fog.

"You scare me a little."

"Because you see too much."

What did he think I saw? The quiet in his eyes? The ache under his voice? The way he never seemed to fully belong in the world, like he was one foot in and one foot gone?

He didn’t know it, but I wasn’t scared of what I saw. I was scared of how much I wanted to keep looking.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I tried to draw, but the pencil didn’t move. I stared at blank pages until the sunrise bruised the sky, and even then, I stayed still—thinking of his eyes, of the silence between us, of the version of him I almost touched.

---

ALVIN

She was there again.

Friday morning. Courtyard. Alone.

I always cut through that space on the way to the north wing, earbuds in, hood up. But this time, I saw her before she saw me—sitting beneath the elm tree like she was waiting for the wind to tell her secrets.

I slowed.

Watched her sketch.

And for a second, I wanted to walk over and sit beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But nothing between us felt natural.

It felt... inevitable. Dangerous.

And so I walked on, hoping she didn’t notice me lingering.

She did.

Because when I passed, her hand paused mid-sketch.

And that was enough to ruin me for the rest of the day.

---

SARAH

His hoodie was dark gray today. His steps slower, more unsure.

He saw me. I knew it.

He looked like he was thinking about stopping.

He didn’t.

But I couldn’t blame him. He didn’t owe me anything. Not a word, not a glance, not a second look. And yet I found myself craving all of it.

That afternoon, I slipped into the auditorium. The drama kids had left their scripts scattered across the stage, and the air smelled of dust and forgotten applause. I sat in the back row, let the silence fill me.

And then I heard the piano.

Soft. Raw. Hesitant.

I held my breath.

Someone was playing the old upright tucked backstage.

A minor chord. A broken melody. A rhythm that stuttered like a secret trying to form itself.

I crept closer.

And then I saw him.

Alvin.

Back turned. Head low. Fingers brushing the keys like he didn’t want the music to be real.

He didn’t know I was there.

So I stayed hidden.

Not because I was afraid of being caught.

But because sometimes, the most sacred thing you can do is let someone be unseen when they’re finally being honest.

---

ALVIN

I hadn’t played in months.

But my hands moved on their own, reaching for something inside me I hadn’t let out in years.

Each note felt like a memory. Each silence between them like a scar.

I didn’t know why I came to the auditorium. I just knew I couldn’t carry the weight of her eyes anymore. The way she looked at me like she understood. Like I wasn’t just noise in the background of someone else’s story.

She saw me.

And it scared the hell out of me.

Because if she saw me—really saw me—then maybe she’d see the parts even I didn’t want to look at.

---

SARAH

I never told him I heard him play.

Not that day.

But later, I would draw the curve of his back at the piano. The shadow of his hands over the keys. The way his loneliness sounded like music.

I would keep the sketch hidden.

Because some moments aren’t meant to be shared. Some are just meant to be held.

Like breath before a confession.

Like a glance before a kiss that never happens.

Like love before it becomes real.

Or like us.

Before we almost were.