When We Were Almost

Before the Move

Layla stared at the empty walls of her bedroom—faded posters, torn photo corners, and a peeling glow-in-the-dark star still clinging to the ceiling like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

Her suitcase sat open on the floor, half-full and half-hearted.

Her mom called from downstairs, “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow, Lay!”

Layla didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into a shoebox at the back of her closet and pulled out the photo—her, Noah, and Mia, arms slung around each other at last summer’s carnival. The three of them, smiling like nothing could fall apart.

And then everything did.

Noah’s lies. Mia’s betrayal. Her parents’ announcement. The whispers at school.

She folded the photo in half, then in half again, until it was too small to feel like it ever mattered.

She didn’t cry. She hadn’t in weeks.

She just zipped the suitcase, grabbed her headphones, and sank into bed.

The last night in Chicago didn’t feel dramatic. It just felt... done.

The highway stretched ahead like a question Layla didn’t want to answer.

She watched her old life shrink in the rearview mirror—apartment buildings, traffic lights, that graffiti mural she used to pass on the bus.

Her mom was trying. Talking about how fresh air would be good for both of them. About slower towns and second chances. About a new job and a school with “smaller class sizes and less drama.”

Layla stared out the window. She wasn’t convinced.

“Maple Hill is going to feel different,” her mom said. “Like a reset.”

Layla didn’t want a reset. She wanted to rewind. Erase. Forget. Maybe all three.

But she just nodded, earbuds in, playlist on shuffle. Every song felt like it almost understood her. Almost.

The trees got taller. The houses got smaller. And as they crossed into Maple Hill, a sign welcomed them with cheerful cursive letters:

“Welcome to Maple Hill — A Place to Bloom.”

Layla stared at the sign and thought:

Packing should’ve felt like closure. Instead, it felt like sorting through someone else’s memories.

Layla pulled old polaroids from the corkboard on her wall—snapshots of bonfires, movie nights, inside jokes scribbled in Sharpie.

She stared at a photo of her and Mia in matching sweatshirts, faces squished together mid-laugh.

Then she lit a candle, watched the edges curl in flame, and let it fall into the bathroom sink.

She didn’t want souvenirs from a friendship built on lies.

Her dad tried to say goodbye at the airport like it was normal—like he hadn’t broken the family into uneven pieces.

“I’ll call you every week,” he said.

She gave him a hollow hug.

“Sure,” she whispered, already turning away.

As the plane took off, she stared out the window, heart heavy with everything she hadn’t said.

She didn’t know what waited for her in Maple Hill.

But at least it wasn’t this.

Layla Reyes leaned her forehead against the car window, watching the unfamiliar houses blur past like brushstrokes in a painting she didn’t ask to be part of. The autumn trees in Maple Hill looked like they were trying too hard—every branch bursting with reds and oranges that screamed "fresh start." She hated it already.

Her mom, always trying to sound upbeat, tapped the steering wheel along to a pop song playing low on the radio. "This school is going to be good for you, Lay. Smaller classes, quieter town, clean slate."

Layla gave a noncommittal hum. She didn’t feel like talking. Not about the move. Not about Dad staying behind in Chicago. And definitely not about starting senior year two months late in a town where everyone had probably known each other since preschool.

The car pulled up in front of Maple Hill High, a modest red-brick building with an overachieving rose garden out front. Layla stepped out, pulling her hoodie tighter around her, like armor. She adjusted her backpack straps and glanced at the kids milling around. Most were in groups—laughing, talking, locked in rhythms she couldn’t match.

She walked into the front office and was greeted by a secretary who smelled like lemon mints and wore a pumpkin pin. “You must be Layla! Welcome, sweetie. You’re going to do great here.”

Layla managed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

First period was English. The teacher, Ms. Garrett, was young and enthusiastic, the kind who wrote inspirational quotes on the whiteboard in different colors. Layla found an empty desk near the back, feeling eyes trail her like shadows.

Then came lunch. She sat alone at the far edge of the courtyard, picking at her sandwich while pretending to scroll her phone.

"You’re new," a voice said.

She looked up. A boy with warm brown eyes and curls that brushed the collar of his hoodie stood there, holding a sketchpad. “Mind if I sit?”

Layla shrugged, which in her new-language meant yes.

“I’m Jayden,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. “You draw?”

She glanced at his sketchpad. “Not really.”

He smiled a little. “Cool. You look like someone who sees things. That’s kind of the first step.”

Layla didn’t know what to say to that. So she said nothing. But something about his voice was calm, like background music she didn’t hate. Maybe this place wouldn’t be all bad.

Maybe.