Chapter 1

Chapter 1 — Day 1: The Boy by the Sea

The first thing I noticed about the town was the smell.

Salt. Warm stone. Sunscreen. And something sweet drifting from the little cafés that lined the street below the hill.

The second thing I noticed was that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing there.

I stood beside my suitcase, staring at the blue water stretching beyond the rooftops, and tried to convince myself that coming here had been a good idea.

Twenty days.

That was all.

Twenty days away from home. Twenty days away from the conversations I didn’t want to have, the questions I didn’t want to answer, and the memories I had spent months trying not to touch.

I could survive twenty days.

At least, that was what I told myself.

The apartment my aunt had rented for me was smaller than the pictures had suggested. The balcony barely had enough room for two chairs, but it overlooked the sea, and the afternoon light turned everything gold.

For a moment, I forgot why I had come.

Then my phone vibrated.

Mum.

I stared at the screen until it stopped.

A minute later, another message appeared.

Please call me when you arrive.

I locked the phone without answering.

I knew what she would say.

Are you okay?

Do you need anything?

Are you sure you want to be alone?

And then, eventually, the question neither of us knew how to ask anymore.

How are you really doing?

I wasn’t ready.

So I left the phone on the kitchen counter, grabbed my sunglasses, and walked outside.

The town was exactly the kind of place people came to when they wanted to forget their problems.

White houses with blue shutters. Narrow streets. Bougainvillea spilling over stone walls. Small restaurants with tables pushed onto sidewalks. Tourists carrying beach bags and cameras. Children running toward the water with inflatable rings under their arms.

Everyone looked happy.

I hated them a little for it.

I walked downhill without a destination.

The sea got louder with every step.

When I reached the promenade, I took off my sandals and carried them in one hand. The pavement was warm beneath my feet. I followed the shoreline until the crowded part of the beach disappeared behind me.

There was a small rocky cove ahead.

Almost empty.

Perfect.

I sat on a flat rock and let my feet touch the water.

For the first time since I had arrived, I breathed properly.

Maybe this could work.

Maybe I could actually disappear for twenty days.

I closed my eyes.

“Careful.”

I opened them.

A boy was standing a few feet away.

No.

A man.

At least, he looked like one.

Dark hair, slightly messy from the wind. Black T-shirt. Faded jeans. A silver chain around his neck. His skin was tanned, and there was something annoyingly calm about the way he stood there, like the whole world had been waiting for him to arrive.

He pointed toward the rocks beneath me.

“That one is slippery.”

I looked down.

My foot was, in fact, inches from a patch of wet moss.

I looked back at him.

“I noticed.”

His mouth curved into a smile.

“Obviously.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Do you always warn strangers about slippery rocks?”

“Only the ones who look like they’re trying to fall into the ocean.”

“I wasn’t trying to fall.”

“Good.”

He took a step closer.

“Would’ve been embarrassing.”

I should have ignored him.

Instead, I laughed.

It was small and unexpected.

His smile changed.

Just slightly.

Like he hadn’t expected me to laugh either.

“I’m Aaron,” he said.

I hesitated.

“Lia.”

He repeated my name slowly, as if testing how it sounded.

Something about it made me uncomfortable.

Not in a bad way.

In a way I couldn’t explain.

He looked toward the sea.

“You’re new.”

It wasn’t a question.

“How do you know?”

“I haven’t seen you before.”

“You know everyone here?”

“Almost.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“That sounds arrogant.”

“It probably is.”

At least he was honest.

I looked back at the water.

“So, Aaron, do you have a hobby besides warning women about rocks?”

“Several.”

“Such as?”

“Annoying strangers.”

“You’re doing a great job.”

“Thank you.”

I shook my head.

He laughed.

Then he sat on the rock beside me.

Not too close.

Just close enough that I noticed.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

It should have been awkward.

It wasn’t.

The waves moved against the shore. Somewhere behind us, music played softly from a beach bar. A gull cried overhead.

Aaron picked up a small stone and threw it into the water.

“Vacation?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

I looked at him.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“You answer them.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Maybe.”

I smiled despite myself.

“I’m here for twenty days.”

His hand stopped.

Only for a second.

But I noticed.

“Twenty?”

“That’s specific.”

“It was the only time I could get.”

He nodded.

“Twenty days is a long time.”

“Not really.”

“It is when you know the exact day you’re leaving.”

There was something in his voice.

Something I couldn’t place.

I studied him.

“Are you always this dramatic?”

“Only on weekdays.”

I laughed again.

He looked pleased with himself.

I hated that.

Or maybe I didn’t.

“What about you?” I asked. “Do you live here?”

“Sometimes.”

I frowned.

“Sometimes?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That usually means yes.”

“It usually means complicated.”

I turned toward the sea.

“Fair enough.”

A few minutes passed.

Then Aaron stood.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“There’s a better view.”

“I already have a pretty good view.”

He looked at me.

For one second, I wondered if he meant himself.

Then he pointed toward the path leading up the hill.

“Trust me.”

I almost said no.

I didn’t know him.

I had met him less than an hour ago.

And yet, something about the way he said it made me stand.

We followed a narrow path between the rocks.

The higher we climbed, the quieter the town became.

At the top was an old stone wall overlooking the entire bay.

The view stole the words from me.

The sea stretched endlessly beneath the afternoon sun. The town looked tiny from there, almost unreal. Boats moved slowly across the horizon.

“Wow.”

Aaron smiled.

“Told you.”

I walked toward the edge.

He stayed a few steps behind.

I looked at him.

“You come here often?”

“Whenever I need to think.”

“About what?”

He looked toward the horizon.

“Things I shouldn’t have done.”

His answer surprised me.

I waited.

He didn’t continue.

So I didn’t ask.

Maybe that was the first thing I liked about him.

He knew when to stop.

The wind caught my hair.

I reached up to fix it, but a strand got stuck against my lip.

Aaron laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“You’ve got—”

He gestured toward his own face.

I touched my cheek.

“Here?”

“No.”

My lips.

I wiped them.

“Here?”

“No.”

He stepped closer.

My heartbeat changed.

“Here.”

He carefully moved the strand of hair away from my mouth.

His fingers barely touched my skin.

Still, I froze.

He froze too.

For a second, neither of us moved.

His eyes met mine.

There was no teasing expression now.

Just something quiet.

Something dangerous.

Then he stepped back.

“Sorry.”

I swallowed.

“It’s fine.”

Neither of us mentioned it again.

But something had changed.

I could feel it.

We spent the next hour talking.

Not about anything important.

Favorite movies. Worst foods. Places we’d never visit. Songs we secretly loved.

I learned that Aaron hated coffee but drank it anyway. That he couldn’t swim as well as he pretended. That he had a habit of tapping his fingers against his leg whenever he was nervous.

He learned that I hated being late, loved thunderstorms, and had a terrible sense of direction.

“You’re going to get lost here,” he said.

“I have maps.”

“You’ll still get lost.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Want to bet?”

His smile returned.

“Sure.”

“What’s the bet?”

He thought for a moment.

“If you get lost, you owe me dinner.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I owe you dinner.”

I smiled.

“Deal.”

He held out his hand.

I shook it.

His fingers closed around mine for a second longer than necessary.

Then he let go.

The sun began to disappear.

I checked the time.

“I should go.”

Aaron nodded.

“I’ll walk you.”

“I can walk alone.”

“I know.”

He started walking anyway.

I followed.

We reached the promenade as the sky turned pink.

Before we separated, he looked at me.

“So, Lia.”

“Yeah?”

“Twenty days.”

I smiled.

“Twenty days.”

He looked at me for a moment.

Then he said something I would remember long after I wished I didn’t.

“Don’t make promises during them.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

He smiled.

“Because people always regret promises made on vacation.”

Then he turned and walked away.

I watched him disappear into the crowd.

I should have forgotten him.

I had known him for one afternoon.

Instead, I stood there with the strange feeling that I had just met someone who was going to matter.

I went back to the apartment after sunset.

The balcony door was open.

I dropped my sandals by the entrance and walked toward the kitchen.

My phone was still there.

Three missed calls.

Two messages from Mum.

I turned the screen face down.

Then I noticed something.

A photograph lay on the counter.

I hadn’t put it there.

I picked it up.

It was an old photograph.

The edges were worn.

The picture showed the same town.

The same coastline.

The same stone wall overlooking the sea.

And standing beside that wall were two people.

A woman I didn’t recognize.

And a boy.

I stared at him.

My stomach dropped.

Because I knew that face.

I knew that dark hair.

I knew those eyes.

Aaron.

I turned the photograph over.

There was a date written on the back.

Eight years ago.

And underneath it, in handwriting I recognized immediately, were four words.

I knew you would come.

I stopped breathing.

The apartment suddenly felt too quiet.

My fingers tightened around the photograph.

I looked toward the open balcony.

The sea was still visible in the distance.

Beautiful.

Peaceful.

Completely unaware that the first day of my twenty-day escape had just become something else.

Something I had never agreed to.

Something Aaron had never warned me about.

And for the first time since I arrived, I wondered whether meeting him had really been an accident.

Because the worst part wasn’t the photograph.

It wasn’t the date.

It wasn’t even the message.

It was the handwriting.

I knew exactly whose it was.

Mine.

But that was impossible.

I had never been here eight years ago.

At least, I didn’t remember being here.

I stared at the handwriting until the letters blurred.

I knew my own handwriting. I had seen it on school notebooks, birthday cards, grocery lists, old diaries I had eventually stopped opening. The shape of the L. The way the t crossed slightly too high. The small curve at the end of my y.

It was mine.

Except I had not written those words.

I turned the photograph over again.

The boy standing beside the woman was younger, but there was no mistaking him.

Aaron.

My pulse hammered in my ears.

Maybe it was a coincidence.

Maybe someone had left the photograph by mistake.

Maybe there was another Aaron.

I almost laughed at the thought.

No.

There wasn’t.