I think I've loved her since before the wind learned to dance through the trees, before the clouds knew how to cry. Since the sun was still a curious golden eye peeking through cotton skies, and the earth smelled only of innocence and wet grass.
Her name is Laura, but to me, she has always been more than that—a secret woven into the wind, a memory painted across every dusk I've ever seen. I do not remember meeting her, only the feeling of her existence—like she had been threaded into my story before I ever had a voice to speak it.
She moved into the house next door when we were both five, dragging a suitcase covered in stickers and a heart too big for the small porch it stood on. She wore a green ribbon in her hair, one that matched the wild leaves that trembled in the summer breeze. And from that day on, the ribbon became a landmark in my world. A compass. A direction. A silent melody I kept humming through the years.
She was chaos with a voice like honey. She ran barefoot across the yard, collecting dandelions like wishes and whispering secrets to the soil. I followed her sometimes, from a distance, pretending to chase butterflies when really, I was chasing the echo of her laughter.
She never saw me.
Or maybe she did.
But never in the way I saw her.
To the world, Laura was a girl with smudged hands and muddy socks, with constellations sketched onto the back of her notebooks and stories folded in the creases of her sleeves. But to me, she was a poem written by the sky itself. A verse I could never speak aloud, because the mere sound of her name in my mouth felt too sacred.
Now we are twelve. And the world has shifted, just slightly. The sun doesn't rise the same way it used to. The trees are taller. The river behind our school sings a deeper song. But Laura remains—fierce and radiant, like a star that forgot to burn out.
She sits two rows ahead of me in class. Her hair still held in that same green ribbon, though it's faded now. Frayed at the edges like an old love letter. Her hands are always moving, always drawing, always reaching into spaces I can't enter. Sometimes, I think she's talking to the sky with her pencil, telling it things too holy for words.
Today, it rained.
The sky wept softly against the windows, and the classroom was cloaked in a hush, broken only by the sound of chalk on board and hearts beating against ribs. I watched her more than I watched the numbers the teacher etched in white.
Laura's fingers danced like willow branches caught in wind—graceful and untamed. She sketched raindrops turning into stars. I wondered if she believed they could. I wanted to ask, but my voice stayed tucked beneath my tongue, safe and small.
Then it happened.
She turned. Just slightly.
"Your shoelace," she said, her voice barely louder than the rain.
I looked down. It was undone.
I bent to tie it, my fingers trembling not from the knot but from the knowledge that she had seen me.
When I looked up, she was smiling.
It wasn't the smile she gave our teacher, or her friends, or the boy who made everyone laugh at lunch. No, this one was different. This one felt like a secret between the earth and sky.
For the rest of the day, I didn't hear a word anyone said. My mind was too full of thunderclouds and green ribbons and the sound of her syllables brushing past my ears.
When school ended, we walked home beneath the dripping trees. She walked ahead, splashing in puddles, and I followed, as always. The earth smelled of dreams and the quiet ache of unspoken things.
I wanted to say something. Anything. Tell her that she's the reason my heart learned to beat like the rain. That every petal in springtime reminds me of her. That when the moon climbs the sky at night, I imagine it's watching her sleep.
But I didn't.
Because some loves are too young to name. And some feelings are too sacred for sound.
So I let the rain speak for me.
I watched her leap across puddles like stepping stones to the stars, her green ribbon flying behind her like a flag in the wind. And I made a promise to myself—that I would love her quietly, the way the moon loves the sea.
From a distance.
With devotion.
And without ever needing to be seen.
The days pass, one after another, like the pages of an old book I'm too afraid to finish.
The world has a way of moving, even when you're standing still. Even when everything around you seems to be holding its breath, waiting for something. For someone. For a moment.
We are twelve now. Almost twelve and a half, but I know that time is slipping. The seasons, the weather, even the trees in our neighborhood, they've all started to change in ways I can't explain. The wind is no longer just wind; it carries secrets now, whispers of things unsaid. Things I am too afraid to hear.
Laura doesn't notice how the world changes. She never seems to notice the small things—the way the sun sits differently on the horizon or how the flowers bloom a little slower each year. She's too busy running, too busy moving forward, her green ribbon always dancing behind her like a flag, marking her path.
I notice everything.
I notice when her laugh falters for just a second, like it's hiding something. I notice the way she presses her lips together when she's thinking, her eyes looking past everyone, past me. Sometimes, I wonder if she's looking for something, or someone, in the clouds above.
But mostly, I notice how she's never really here. Not in the way I want her to be.
I've been following her for years now. Not literally, of course. Not in the way a stalker would. But I've watched her. In the hallways, in the classroom, at recess. Every step she takes is an unspoken question. Every smile she gives to someone else feels like an answer I'll never get.
Today, we walk home together again. It's a familiar ritual now—me trailing a few paces behind her, watching her braid bounce with each step. She's talking about something I'm not really hearing, the words floating through the air like leaves caught in a gust of wind. I try to listen, but it's hard. I can never quite focus on what she says. Not when my heart is racing like this.
"Do you ever wonder," she asks suddenly, turning to look at me, "if we're going to stay in this town forever?"
Her voice is soft, curious, as if she doesn't expect me to answer. But I do. I always do. Because when Laura speaks to me, I can't help but listen.
"I don't know," I say, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. "I don't think we can stay here forever. Things change."
She smiles like she's figured something out. "I think so, too," she says. "But sometimes I wish we could keep things the same. Just for a little longer. I want to be a kid forever."
I nod, even though I don't understand. I don't think she knows how fragile being a kid is. How close the end is. How close we are to that end.
We walk in silence for a while, the soft rhythm of our footsteps filling the space between us. It's an odd silence, not uncomfortable, but not comfortable either. It's the kind of silence that holds a thousand unsaid words, a thousand unspoken feelings, just waiting to be released.
I wonder if she feels it too. I wonder if she notices how different everything is between us, even if we don't say it aloud.
She kicks a stone on the ground, watching it skitter across the path, and I can't help but wonder if she's running from something. Maybe from me. Maybe from this. From whatever it is that's growing between us like wild vines, winding through our hearts.
But it's too quiet. And I am too quiet. And sometimes silence is the loudest sound of all.
We reach her house, the small white one with the ivy climbing up the walls, and I stop at the edge of the yard. She glances back, her eyes bright and curious.
"You're not coming in?" she asks, as if it's the most normal thing in the world.
"I... I have to go home," I mumble, my voice soft and unsure. The words feel like they weigh too much to say.
She shrugs and turns to walk toward her front door, her steps light and carefree. But before she disappears inside, she turns back to me.
"Maybe tomorrow we can go to the park?" she says, as if the question is nothing more than a casual suggestion.
I nod quickly, unable to speak. I want to say something—something profound, something that tells her how much I care. How much I've always cared. But the words won't come. Not like this.
"See you tomorrow, Aiden," she calls over her shoulder, already halfway to the door.
And then she's gone.
I stand there for a moment, the weight of her absence pressing down on me. It's like the world has tilted slightly to the side, and for a moment, I don't know which way is up.
Tomorrow. She said we would go to the park tomorrow. But I know that "tomorrow" is just another word for a day that will slip away too quickly. And when it's gone, I'll still be here, watching her from the edges, hoping that one day, she'll turn around and see me—not just as the boy who follows her footsteps, but as the one who's been here all along.
The sun is setting behind the trees, and the sky is painting itself in shades of purple and gold. The air is cool now, the gentle breeze stirring the leaves, carrying the smell of earth and rain. I take a deep breath, trying to breathe in every piece of this moment, trying to hold onto it for as long as I can.
And I realize something.
Laura doesn't need to know. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I will love her in silence. I will love her the way the river loves the stones in its path, always flowing around them, never forcing them to move. I will love her the way the earth loves the stars—forever distant, but always watching.
And maybe that's enough.
Maybe it's enough that she exists in the same world as me. That I get to share this space with her, even if she never knows the depth of what I feel.
I stand there a little longer, watching the stars start to poke through the deepening sky, and I wonder if she's looking up at them too. Wondering if, just maybe, she's thinking of me.
And then, I turn and walk home.
The earth beneath my feet feels a little softer tonight, the moon a little brighter. Maybe it's the love that's blooming inside me, or maybe it's just the way the world seems to bend around us. Whatever it is, I know that this love—quiet, soft, unspoken—is enough.
For now.
END OF EPISODE ONE