Novels by Redlady85

Epilogue: Three months laterSpring in Maple HillThe courtyard was finally green again.The trees, once bare and brittle, had bloomed into soft promises. Pink buds peeked through budding branches, and blades of grass tickled the hems of students’ jeans as they sprawled across the lawn. The breeze smelled like fresh beginnings and something close to forgiveness.Layla sat under her favorite tree near the center of the quad, journal open on her lap, sunlight pooling on the pages like melted gold. Her fingers hovered over the pen for a moment before they moved.She hadn’t written in weeks—not since the Winter Showcase, not since Jayden kissed her under a canopy of fairy lights, quiet music, and quiet relief. That kiss had felt like punctuation, like the closing of a chapter she didn’t know she’d been writing.But today felt different.Not because something big had happened.Because something small had.Jayden sat across from her, cross-legged in the grass, sketchbook in his lap and his

Graduation was three months away, and already the air carried the scent of endings—fresh-cut grass, old library books, and the sharp breath of spring just waking up. Everything felt like a countdown: final essays, college deadlines, farewell letters passed in secret between lockers.Layla sat tucked into a corner of the school library, sunlight pouring through the tall windows. A college brochure rested in one hand, her final poem in the other. The lines had been written and rewritten more times than she could count—but now they felt complete.She’d submitted the poem to the state writing contest on a whim. Or maybe on a dare—Jayden’s voice echoing in her head, "Why not you?"The poem ended with a line she hadn’t been brave enough to write a year ago:We were almost a story. Now we are one.She reread it again, feeling the words settle inside her chest like they belonged there.The library door creaked, and footsteps approached.Jayden.He held two iced coffees—hers with cinnamon, his

A week after the Winter Arts Showcase, Layla found herself back in the art room—not for a project, not to escape lunch, not even to paint.Just… because.Because this was where she could breathe.Jayden was already there, spinning gently on a squeaky stool near the windows, sketchbook balanced on his knee, pencil dancing in that effortless way he had. He didn’t look up when she walked in, but she saw the corners of his mouth twitch.“You always come early now,” he teased, voice warm and familiar.“You’re always here first,” she replied, shaking the snow from her coat and draping it over the back of a chair.The room smelled like linseed oil and paper—messy and creative and real. It had become their unofficial place, the way some songs become your song without ever meaning to.They’d kissed. They’d labeled things. And now they were navigating the new space that came after almost.It was real. Honest. And a little terrifying.But Layla didn’t mind the fear as much anymore. Fear meant it

The day of the Winter Arts Showcase arrived with snow clinging to the edges of the sidewalks and breath visible in the air. Maple Hill High was buzzing with energy—twinkle lights strung across the ceiling beams, tables filled with clay sculptures and photography prints, and the auditorium transformed into a gallery of student possibility.Layla stood near the back, fingers curled around a cup of lukewarm cider, stomach fluttering like it was trying to tell her something. Maybe it was nerves. Or maybe it was knowing that she had given away more of herself than she ever meant to.Somewhere between painting and poetry, she’d let pieces of her past leak into color and ink—her disappointments, her hopes, her almosts. And now they were on display under bright lights, for everyone to see.Jayden hadn’t said much since the night she told him she was falling. He hadn’t pulled away, but he hadn’t stepped closer either. He was... present. Warm. Quiet. As if he was waiting for the right moment to

The air between them felt lighter after that conversation, like they had both put down something heavy they’d been carrying too long. But still—there was hesitation. Not because the feelings weren’t real, but because they were.Real was messy.Real was scary.And neither of them wanted to be the first to call it what it was.Jayden and Layla found each other again in the little moments.She waited for him by the art room steps with two coffees this time—one black, one cinnamon-dusted. He smiled without words when he took the right one, his fingers grazing hers just long enough to leave a trail of warmth.They worked late after school most days, buried in their final project—a mixed-media canvas that layered Jayden’s illustrations with fragments of Layla’s poetry. It was bold. Raw. Beautiful in a chaotic kind of way. A mirror of everything unspoken between them.Layla scribbled her verses across parchment in faded ink while Jayden outlined fractured wings, open hands, and eyes filled w

It took Layla two full days to realize that giving Jayden space wasn’t making things better—it was just giving her too much time to overthink. She replayed every detail of that hallway moment like a looped movie: Noah’s hand on her locker, Jayden’s eyes clouding over, the retreat before she could explain.And the silence?It was worse than any argument. It sat with her at lunch. Rode with her on the bus. Followed her into every class like a fog she couldn’t shake.By Monday, the sky had turned that pale, indifferent gray—the kind that made everything feel colder than it really was. The kind that whispered, say something before it’s too late.So she did.She waited until the final bell, watching the halls slowly empty. Then she walked straight to the art wing, her boots clacking against the linoleum like a heartbeat she couldn’t slow.The door creaked open. Jayden was there—alone—standing in front of a half-finished canvas, fingers streaked with crimson and cobalt, his usual sketchpad