The Summer He Noticed Me | TSITP

The beach was darker than it had been the night before. The stars were smudged behind thin clouds, and the moon hung low and hazy over the water. I walked slowly, tracing the same path from the dunes to the shoreline, the hem of my dress dragging slightly through the sand.

I wasn't expecting anyone else to be out here again. Last night had felt like a fluke — one of those rare moments where the world folds in on itself and someone you thought would never see you actually does. I figured tonight would be quiet. That Conrad would stay inside with the others, tangled up in whatever tension had thickened between him and Belly.

But there he was again.

Sitting in the same spot as before, arms resting on his knees, staring out at the ocean like it held answers he couldn't reach. I hesitated, not wanting to interrupt whatever was going on in his head, but then he turned slightly and looked over his shoulder.

"You're out late again," he said.

I stopped a few feet away, unsure whether that was an invitation or just a comment.

"So are you," I replied, brushing a piece of hair out of my face.

He shifted over on the sand, leaving room beside him. I took the hint.

We sat in silence for a while. I could hear the waves lapping softly, the far-off sound of laughter from the house, the creak of the dock swaying in the night wind. I glanced at him, then quickly looked away.

It wasn't the first time we'd sat beside each other. Not technically.

Three summers ago, I'd caught him sitting on the back porch steps, hiding behind a curtain of curls and a hoodie pulled up even though it was ninety degrees. I'd brought out a cup of iced tea, not really thinking much of it, and placed it beside him without a word. He hadn't looked up, but ten minutes later, the glass was empty.

Two summers ago, he'd helped me carry a box of paints up from my dad's car without being asked. He didn't say anything about it, and I didn't thank him out loud — but I'd left a pack of his favorite gum on the porch the next morning. I'd seen him pocket it without breaking stride.

Last summer, we didn't talk at all.

So this — sitting on the beach two nights in a row — felt like a glitch in the system. Or maybe a small, quiet rewrite.

He leaned back on his hands, glancing sideways at me. "You always walk out here alone?"

"Mostly. I like the quiet."

He nodded. "Me too. Sometimes it feels like the only time I can breathe."

I tilted my head, studying him. The ocean wind tugged at the edge of his hoodie, his jaw tense beneath the pale glow of moonlight.

"You okay?" I asked softly.

He exhaled, a tired sound. "You ever feel like... everything's shifting under you? Like you're trying to hold it all still but the pieces just keep slipping away?"

I didn't answer right away. My first instinct was to say no — to keep it light, to let the moment pass. But he wasn't asking out of politeness. He wanted to be heard.

"Sometimes," I said finally. "Especially at night. That's when everything catches up."

He looked at me then. Really looked. His eyes weren't stormy like people always said — they were tired, rimmed with something softer, like he'd been holding his breath all day and was only now letting it out.

"I don't know how to keep pretending it's all okay," he murmured. "And I can't talk to Belly. Not like this. Not anymore."

There was so much weight in that sentence that I didn't dare touch it. Not the part about Belly. Not the part about pretending.

So I didn't offer advice. I didn't try to solve him. I just sat there, letting the silence stretch around us like a thread that didn't need to be tied into a bow.

After a while, he said, "Everyone thinks I'm the moody one."

I smiled a little. "You kind of are."

He laughed, a real sound, and it startled both of us.

"I deserved that," he said.

We sat in that fragile calm for a few more minutes before he spoke again.

"You ever wish you could be someone else? Even just for a day?"

I thought about that. "Not really. But sometimes I wish I could be louder. Braver."

He looked at me again. "You don't seem scared."

"That's because I keep most things inside."

"Same."

We were quiet again. But not uncomfortably so. It was the kind of quiet that made me feel... noticed. Not by the whole world. Just by him. And maybe that was enough.

Eventually, he stood up and brushed the sand from his jeans.

"I should go back in before they notice I'm gone," he said, not quite looking at me.

"Right. Me too."

But neither of us moved at first. The waves rolled in, steady and patient. I felt like we were balanced on the edge of something — not quite a moment, not quite a memory. Just something suspended.

He turned to leave, then paused.

"Thanks," he said. "For listening."

And then he was gone, disappearing up the path toward the house with his shoulders slightly less heavy than before.

I stayed a while longer, watching the tide creep closer to my feet. My chest felt tight, but not in a bad way. It was more like... pressure building. Like a dam holding back something I hadn't let myself feel before.

The next morning, I woke up early and couldn't go back to sleep. I sat by the window, sketchbook in my lap, and drew without thinking — a silhouette of a boy sitting on the beach, backlit by moonlight, the outline of a girl beside him, barely visible.

I didn't know what it meant. Not yet.

But I knew something had changed.

Not in some movie-style way. No sudden kisses or declarations. Just a slow shift. A glance held a little too long. A quiet moment that lingered like salt on your skin.

Maybe this summer would be different after all.

Not louder. Not flashier.

But maybe it would matter.