(Where an old photograph reveals a forgotten thread, childhood shadows rise to the surface, and love becomes something quieter—but more rooted than ever.)
"Sometimes, love doesn't knock on your door.
Sometimes it's already sitting on your shelf, gathering dust."
The Box
Viera hadn't meant to find it.
She was organizing her closet—or, more accurately, throwing things into a pile and calling it progress—when her hand brushed against something buried under an old blanket.
It was an old shoebox. Taped shut. Dusty.
She frowned. Pulled it out.
The handwriting on the lid was hers. Sloppy. Younger. It read:
"Do not open unless bored or dying of sadness."
She sat down cross-legged on her bedroom floor, still in Kade's hoodie, and cracked it open.
Inside: a mess of childhood.
Old drawings. Crayon pictures. A broken keychain from a summer camp she hated. And near the bottom—photographs.
One slipped out.
She blinked.
It was a picture of her, around age 6, standing in front of a carnival booth with a boy beside her. His face was blurred from movement. But even in the motion-blur, something about him was… familiar.
Dark hair. Tall, even then. Standing half-behind her, like he didn't want to be seen.
Her hand started to shake.
Because on the back, in faded purple ink, was written:
"Me and the quiet boy with the superhero band-aid. 1st grade."
She stared at it for a long time.
Couldn't explain why her chest started to ache.
The Call
She FaceTimed him that night.
Kade answered half-distracted, holding a mug of something. "Hey."
"Hey," she said.
"You okay?"
"No."
He was instantly alert. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," she said. Then held up the picture.
He squinted. "What's that?"
"You."
He blinked. "What?"
Viera smiled—small, stunned. "I think we met before."
Memory and Dust
Kade stared at the picture.
He couldn't stop looking at the boy in it. The way he was half-turned away. The way he clutched something tight in his hand—something small and silver.
"I had a toy like that," he whispered. "Silver ring pop. My mom gave it to me for being brave that day."
She nodded.
"I remember…" he trailed off. "I cried that day. A clown tried to give me a balloon and I panicked."
Viera's face softened. "I remember that."
He looked at her.
"You… you helped me," he said slowly. "You stood in front of me. Told the clown to go away. You yelled, 'He doesn't like your creepy face!'"
Viera laughed. "He did have a creepy face."
And suddenly they were both quiet.
That memory, long buried, slid between them like a ghost with kind hands.
"I think you were my first defender," he said softly.
"And you were my first secret," she said.
The Sleepover That Wasn't Planned
He came over.
Of course he did.
They spent the night on her floor, not even bothering with the bed. Just a pile of blankets and pillows and half-eaten chips. The photo sat on the nightstand like it had always belonged there.
"I think I liked you even back then," Viera whispered.
Kade didn't reply.
But he reached out and took her hand.
Something Small and Important
She pulled out a Sharpie.
He frowned. "What're you—?"
She scribbled something on the back of the photo.
Then handed it to him.
In neat handwriting, under her old message, it now read:
"And then I found him again."
Kade stared at it.
And whispered, "You're gonna make me cry."
She smirked.
"I know."
Soft Tickle Tease
As he handed the photo back, she pounced.
Fingers sliding under his arm, fast and ruthless.
"NO—Viera, not again—!"
But she was already grinning, already straddling his waist, already scribbling tickles across his sides.
"This is for taking an hour to answer my FaceTime earlier!"
He shrieked. "I was making tea—"
"Excuses!"
He collapsed back, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
When she finally stopped, he was flushed, teary-eyed, and glowing.
And she kissed his cheek—right where a tear had started to slip.
: A Drawer Opens
Across town, in a quiet apartment, Elliot Mathers sat at his desk.
He had a copy of the school's old yearbook open beside him.
He wasn't sure why he'd borrowed it from the front office. Something about seeing Kade and Viera together had pulled a thread loose in his memory.
He flipped through the pages.
Stopped.
Stared at a picture from first grade.
A class photo.
One face—blurred but familiar.
A boy who always stood behind others.
And a girl, smiling, leaning ever-so-slightly toward him.
Elliot reached for his sketchbook.
And started to draw.
End of Chapter 28 – The Things We Almost Forgot