She didn’t show up Monday.

Or Tuesday.

By Wednesday, James had memorized every tile in the train station and every excuse someone might make for being gone.

Maybe she was sick.

Maybe her phone died.

Maybe she needed space.

But deep down, he knew.

On Thursday morning, she texted. Only four words:

“He found the journal.”

James didn’t go to school that day. Didn’t even make it to the train. He sat in his kitchen with his phone in his hand, heart pounding like it was trying to warn him.

Then, another message came:

“I’m okay. Not safe, but okay. Can you meet me? Just once?”

He didn’t hesitate.

She was waiting for him in the park by the old bandstand. Hoodie pulled low, hair tied up, eyes flicking around like shadows were following her.

She smiled when she saw him—but it broke halfway through.

“I shouldn’t have written anything,” she said, voice cracking. “He said I was lying. That I was dramatic. That I just wanted attention.” She swallowed hard. “He ripped out the page you wrote on.”

James sat beside her on the bench. “He doesn’t get to erase things just because he’s scared of them.”

Ivy looked at him, tears threatening at the edges of her eyes.

“I need to leave,” she said. “But I don’t know how. I don’t even know who I am without him telling me.”

James reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out the red Lifesaver she gave him weeks ago—the one he never ate.

He held it out in his open palm.

“You’re someone who made this matter. Someone who made a train ride feel like something more. You’re Ivy. That’s who you are.”

She looked at the candy, then at him, then back at her trembling hands.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he said. “But we’ll figure it out.”

And then, for the first time, she leaned into him—just enough to rest her head on his shoulder.

They sat like that in the gray stillness of the morning.

Not healed.

Not safe yet.

But not alone.

Again.