Hello Beloveds,
And welcome to tonight's story,
When We Meet Again.
Just taking a few moments now to arrive in the space,
To fully land here in the present moment.
Maybe stretching out your body,
Signalling that it is time to relax.
Maybe taking some deeper inhales and exhales.
And when you're comfortable,
We shall begin.
Sarah liked the quiet corners of the park,
The places where no one else thought to go.
She liked the way the late summer sun slipped through the branches,
Softening everything,
Painting even the cracks in the old path with gold.
It was her private place to sketch,
Away from the chatter of her classmates and the noise of her younger brothers at home.
That afternoon,
She carried her sketchbook pressed close to her chest,
Looking for a spot near the pond.
She thought she would be alone,
But as she rounded the bend,
She saw him.
A boy sat under the old oak tree,
Guitar on his lap,
Head bent in concentration.
His fingers fumbled through a melody,
Hesitant,
Halting,
But he didn't look embarrassed by the mistakes.
Instead,
He tilted his head,
Listening,
As though the broken chords were secret only he could hear.
Sarah slowed her steps,
Unsure if she should disturb him,
But then he looked up.
Their eyes met.
His were a clear hazel,
Steady and curious.
For a moment,
She thought about turning around,
Pretending she hadn't been watching.
But he smiled,
A crooked,
Uneven thing,
Warm enough to keep her rooted in place.
You draw?
He asked,
Nodding toward the sketchbook she held.
His voice was low,
Easy,
Unafraid.
Sarah blinked.
Yes,
Her answer came out smaller than she intended.
He lifted his guitar slightly.
And I play.
The lips twitched.
Do you?
He laughed,
Shaking his head.
I try.
He gestured at the grass.
Want to sit?
Something inside her fluttered.
She crossed the distance and sat a little away from him,
Legs folded neatly beneath her.
She opened her sketchbook to a blank page,
Pencils slipping out of her bag.
Pond stretched before them,
Dotted with ducks gliding lazily across the water.
For a while,
Neither of them spoke.
His music stumbled in and out of rhythm.
Her pencil whispered across the page.
But the silence wasn't heavy.
It was comfortable,
Like they had slipped into a world apart from anything else.
Finally,
He said,
I'm James.
She looked up,
Met his eyes again.
Sarah.
And somehow,
That was enough to begin.
James kept appearing.
Or maybe Sarah kept finding him.
The next day,
He was already under the oak tree when she arrived,
Strumming the same chord progression until it smoothed into something almost beautiful.
He looked up at her with a grin.
Didn't scare you off then?
Not yet,
She said,
Settling beside him.
They began to meet like this,
Unplanned but expected,
As though the park itself wanted them to cross paths.
Some days,
They stayed silent,
She sketching while he played.
Other days,
Words tumbled easily,
Laughter spilling across the grass.
He teased her for always chewing on her pencil when she was thinking.
She teased him for humming off-key when he forgot the lyrics.
One afternoon,
She asked,
Why guitar?
He shrugged,
Leaning back against the tree.
Because it feels like the only thing that's mine.
At school,
I'm just another person.
At home,
I'm my parents' kid.
But when I play,
It's me.
Does that make sense?
She nodded.
It does.
That's how I feel when I draw.
His smile lingered,
Softer this time.
Then,
Maybe,
We're the same kind of strange.
She laughed,
Cheeks warm,
And sketched him before he noticed.
His bent head,
His messy hair,
The curve of his hand on the strings.
When she showed him,
Embarrassed,
He stared at the page in silence.
That's me.
Well,
Sort of.
She ducked her head.
It's not really finished yet.
It's amazing.
He reached for the sketch,
But she pulled it back quickly,
Tucking it between the pages.
No,
This one is mine.
He raised an eyebrow,
Grinning.
Keeping secrets already?
Maybe.
The days blurred into each other.
They walked the winding streets of town,
Foot-dripping ice creams with coins scraped together,
Lay on the grass at night naming constellations,
Each small moment layered on top of the last,
Until Sarah couldn't quite remember a time before James had been in her world.
Late one evening,
After the heat of the day had softened,
They sat on the swings in the empty playground.
The air smelled faintly of cut grass and rain.
Where would you go?
James asked suddenly.
If you could go anywhere.
Sarah thought for a moment.
Paris?
Or Venice?
Anywhere with old bridges.
I want to sketch them all.
He smiled.
Of course you'd say bridges.
And you?
He leaned back,
Scuffing his shoe against the dirt.
I want to play music that matters.
Not fame.
Not money.
Just songs people remember.
Songs that feel like home.
His voice held a quiet determination,
And she found herself staring at him,
Memorizing the shape of his jaw,
The way his eyes gleamed in half-light.
Something inside her whispered,
I'll remember you.
Always.
He turned,
Catching her gaze,
And for a moment the air between them felt fragile,
Shimmering with something that neither dared to name.
Then he looked away,
And the moment passed.
The news arrived on an ordinary afternoon.
James told her under the oak tree,
Voice unsteady.
His father had been offered a new job,
And they were moving to Canada in less than a month.
Sarah felt the words like a blow.
Canada,
She repeated,
As though saying it aloud would change it.
He nodded,
Shoulders tight.
I don't want to go.
Silence stretched between them.
She stared at the pond,
Blinking hard,
Refusing to let the tears fall.
He reached for her hand,
Tentative,
And she didn't pull away.
We still have time,
He whispered.
A little.
And so they clung to those last weeks,
Filling them with everything they could.
Late-night walks,
Secret corners of town,
Conversations that stretched until dawn.
Every laugh felt sharper,
Every glance heavier.
The shadow of goodbye hovered over them,
Unspoken but inescapable.
The night before he left,
They met by the pond.
The air was cool,
The sky scattered with stars.
James's guitar lay forgotten beside him.
I don't want to forget this,
He said quietly,
Staring at the water.
You won't,
She whispered,
Though her throat ached.
He turned to her then,
And she saw it in his eyes.
The same ache,
The same desperation.
The space between them disappeared.
His lips met hers,
Trembling but certain,
And the world stilled.
It was clumsy and urgent,
A kiss that tasted of salt and promise,
Of beginnings and endings colliding at once.
When they pulled apart,
Breathless,
He pressed his forehead to hers.
I'll write,
He murmured.
And the next morning,
He was gone.
All that remained was the folded letter tucked into her sketchbook.
She read it until the ink blurred,
Until the paper wore thin,
Until the words were etched inside her as surely as her own heartbeat.
And then,
Summer ended.
