Chapter 1: The Night I Left My Heart

After I started high school, I was taken in by the Callahan family.

I remember that first day so clearly. As Mr. Callahan drove me up the winding streets of Maple Heights, the rain misted the windshield and the car smelled faintly of old vinyl and the lingering scent of pine air freshener. The local Top 40 station played softly in the background, but I barely heard it over the pounding of my own heart. I kept thinking: This is it. My parents are gone, and these strangers are now my new family. I tried to swallow my fear, clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, I could belong here.

The Callahans had a beloved son, Mason Callahan. I secretly had a crush on him for three whole years, a feeling that never seemed to fade no matter how hard I tried. Every birthday, every school dance, every moment in that house seemed to orbit around my longing for him. I remembered the way he once laughed at a joke I told, the time our hands brushed reaching for the same glass, and how just the mention of his name could make my stomach twist into knots. It was a secret I kept even from myself sometimes, because wanting him felt both impossible and inevitable.

Every time Mason walked into a room, it felt like the whole atmosphere changed—like the air itself buzzed with something electric. I’d sneak glances from the corner of my eye, memorizing the tilt of his smile, the way he tossed his backpack by the door, or how his laugh could fill up the whole house. My heart would do these wild somersaults whenever he looked my way, even though most of the time he didn’t really see me at all. Sometimes I’d tuck my hair behind my ear, or pretend to be busy, just so I wouldn’t look too obvious staring at him.

But in Mason’s heart, there was someone else—a perfect, unreachable girl he called his white moonlight. I never understood the phrase until I realized it meant she was his dream girl, the one who got away, the ideal he compared everyone else to. I hated how much I envied her, even though I’d never met her.

He’d talk about her sometimes, almost like he was telling a story he’d never forget. The way his voice softened when he said her name made it clear: she was the dream, the one who left a mark on his heart that no one could erase—not even me.

On the night that girl left to study abroad, Mason sat in the dim hallway of a college bar all night, his eyes red from crying. He was just barely old enough to get in, and I’d followed, not wanting him to be alone. We both knew he was too young to be there, but no one stopped him. Maybe heartbreak made you look older.

It was the kind of night where the world felt washed out, neon lights flickering in puddles on the sidewalk, the air heavy with the smell of spilled beer and cheap perfume. I watched him from across the room, wishing I could go to him, to say something—anything—but I was frozen by the weight of everything I couldn’t say.

That night, the rain poured down in sheets, drumming against the windows. I left the only umbrella I had propped up by the corner of the bar and quietly slipped away. My heart ached with every step, but I couldn’t bear to watch him hurt over someone else.

I remember pausing at the doorway, glancing back at Mason hunched over, his shoulders shaking as he tried to hold himself together. I set my umbrella down by the coat rack, hoping he’d find it and know someone was thinking of him, then stepped out into the storm. The rain soaked through my jacket, chilling me to the bone, but it was nothing compared to the ache inside as I let myself disappear into the night.

Years later, Mason and I met again at a college house party.

It was one of those rowdy college parties, the air thick with laughter, the smell of cheap beer, and the thump of bass from a Bluetooth speaker. Red Solo cups littered the floor, and someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen. I wasn’t there to have fun—just collecting a friend who’d overdone it on shots and needed a ride home. The place was a blur of faces and cigarette smoke, music pounding through the floorboards.

I was just there to collect a friend who’d overdone it, but through the haze of smoke, a man in a gray hoodie lazily pushed open the door, still surrounded by a crowd of girls in ripped jeans and crop tops, laughing and calling him “dude” and “hot stuff.”

He looked older but somehow exactly the same. His laugh was deeper now, his posture a little more guarded, but when he ran a hand through his hair, I felt that old ache in my chest—a mix of nostalgia and longing that made it hard to breathe.

I watched for a moment, trying to steady myself. My heart was racing, palms sweaty, but I forced myself to pretend not to recognize him. I lowered my eyes, slipped out the door, and let the crowd swallow him up behind me.

My heart pounded so loud I thought someone might hear it as I slipped outside. The cool air was a relief after the stifling room, carrying the smell of rain on warm concrete and the distant sound of sirens. I pulled my hood up, hoping the rain would hide the flush on my cheeks.

Outside, rain was falling in sheets, splattering on the sidewalk and pooling at the curb. I stood at the entrance, hesitating, trying to figure out how I’d get home without a phone or a plan.

My phone was dead, and I cursed myself for not checking the forecast—or for not borrowing a charger at the party when I had the chance. The streetlights shimmered on the wet pavement, and I hugged my arms tight, debating whether to make a run for it or wait it out.

Suddenly, someone handed me an umbrella from behind. The hand was fair, with strong, defined wrists, and for a split second I froze, not daring to hope.

I turned, startled, as the umbrella opened over my head. The familiar scent of his cologne—something like Old Spice, woodsy and clean—hit me all at once, and I almost forgot how to breathe.

The man in the hoodie spoke softly:

"Harper."

His voice was lower now, rougher, tinged with nostalgia that made my breath catch and sent a shiver down my spine. For a moment, I was back in high school, hoping he’d notice me.

"You left this with me a long time ago."

He smiled, just a little, and in that moment, the years between us seemed to melt away. I felt a shiver run through me, and I took a deep breath, wondering if maybe, just maybe, things could change.