It was the kind of morning that looked like it had secrets to keep—overcast, slightly cool, and too quiet. Penelope sat by the café window, stirring her coffee as if it had answers at the bottom of the cup. Veronica was late. Again.
She watched the condensation form on the glass, each droplet sliding down like a metaphor she was too tired to finish. The town was changing. Or maybe she was. She couldn't tell anymore.
The door chimed.
"I swear if you're going to complain about Marc again, I will bury myself in this croissant," Penelope said without looking.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Veronica said, sliding into the seat opposite her. "But if you must know, he was at the gym this morning shirtless, and honestly? I saw God."
Penelope snorted into her drink. "You see God every time a man breathes near you."
"Correct," Veronica said proudly, then leaned in. "But what about you? You've been quiet. Suspiciously not-Julian-drama quiet."
Penelope hesitated.
She hadn't told anyone about the message she found in her locker two days ago. No signature, just three words on aged paper: "I remember everything." She didn't want to assume. Could've been Julian. Could've been Marc. Could've been her overly dramatic subconscious trying to sabotage her diet and her peace of mind.
"There's nothing to report," she lied.
Veronica narrowed her eyes. "Liar. Your face twitched. That's your lying twitch."
"I don't have a lying twitch."
"You have three. I've catalogued them."
Before Penelope could roll her eyes, the café door chimed again. She didn't have to turn to know who it was. That cologne, that confident, irritating walk—Marc.
"Speak of the devil," Veronica muttered. "And he doth wear leather jackets in May. Classic."
Marc approached them casually, hands in pockets, eyes fixed on Penelope like she was a song he forgot the lyrics to but still loved.
"You forgot your sketchbook," he said, holding it out.
Penelope blinked. "I—how did you…?"
"It was on the table in the art room. Figured you'd want it back."
Veronica took a long, dramatic sip of her coffee. "Wow. A chivalrous moment from Marc. Did someone spike your protein shake?"
Marc ignored her. "There's a drawing in there. Of me. In ink."
Penelope's eyes widened. "You looked?"
He shrugged, smirking. "I liked it. I didn't know I looked that… brooding."
"You don't," Veronica said flatly.
But Penelope was frozen. She didn't remember drawing Marc. She'd been sketching a lot lately, trying to exorcise feelings that had no business hanging around. But she had no memory of that one.
Later, alone in her room, Penelope flipped through her sketchbook.
There it was—Marc in a side profile, eyes half-lidded, smirk barely visible. He looked exactly like he had the night of the party, standing in the moonlight before he'd whispered, "You don't have to pretend with me."
And beneath the drawing, written in her own handwriting—"I wish I could hate you."
Her chest tightened.
She closed the book, pressed it to her heart, and whispered into the silence of her room, "Me too."