CLARISSE LA RUE

You don’t expect it to feel like this.

Coming back to camp is supposed to be familiar. Easy. Something you can slip into without thinking too hard about it—like muscle memory, like a rhythm your body already knows. You’d imagined it that way for weeks, maybe longer. The walk up the hill, the sun catching on the cabins, the distant sound of voices carrying through the air.

You thought it would feel like coming home.

Instead—

It feels like standing at the edge of something you’re not sure you’re ready for.

You linger at the top of the hill for a moment longer than necessary, fingers brushing absentmindedly against the heart-shaped necklace resting against your collarbone. It’s familiar, grounding, something small to hold onto when everything else feels just slightly off.

The breeze is soft, warm, tugging gently at the hem of your sundress, the fabric shifting around your legs as you take a slow breath.

Camp stretches out below you, unchanged in all the ways that matter.

And yet—

You feel different.

You look different.

You’re not the same person who left two summers ago, no matter how much you might want to be.

You shift your weight slightly, lips pursed in quiet thought, gaze drifting across the familiar landscape. Campers move about below, laughter and conversation rising faintly, blending into something almost comforting.

Almost.

Because your mind isn’t really here.

Not entirely.

It’s somewhere else—caught on a memory you’ve replayed more times than you’d ever admit out loud. A face. A voice. A presence that never quite left, no matter how much time passed.

Clarisse La Rue.

You haven’t seen her yet.

You don’t know if she’s here.

You don’t—

Your breath catches.

Because suddenly—

She is.

You don’t see her approach at first.

You feel it.

The shift.

The subtle change in the air, like something heavier has entered the space, something grounded and undeniable and impossible to ignore.

Then you look up.

And there she is.

For a second—

Everything stops.

Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice.

Just enough.

Just enough that the rest of the world fades to the edges, blurred and distant and entirely irrelevant.

Because she’s looking at you.

And you’re looking at her.

And somehow, that’s all that matters.

She’s—

Gods.

She’s different.

Not unrecognizable.

Never that.

But sharper. Broader. More solid in a way that makes something in your chest tighten without warning. There’s a new weight to her presence, a kind of confidence that feels heavier, more deliberate.

More dangerous.

Her arms are stronger, tanned from hours in the sun, the lines of muscle more defined than you remember. Her grip on her spear is loose but certain, like it’s an extension of her rather than something she’s holding.

And her face—

There’s a scar on her jaw now.

It’s not large, not something most people would notice at first glance.

You do.

Of course you do.

Your eyes linger on it for half a second too long, tracing the line of it without meaning to, your thoughts catching on the idea of what it might feel like beneath your fingertips.

You shouldn’t think that.

You do anyway.

And then—

She steps closer.

Not fast.

Not hesitant.

Just… certain.

Like she’s been building up to this moment and finally decided to stop waiting.

She stops a few feet away.

Close enough that you can see everything.

Close enough that you can feel it.

That same presence you remember—strong, steady, impossible to ignore—only now it’s… different.

Heavier.

More focused.

On you.

Her arms cross over her chest, posture shifting into something that looks casual, almost lazy, like she’s trying to play it off, like this is nothing.

Like you’re nothing.

But her eyes—

Her eyes betray her.

They linger.

Just for a second too long.

Your lips.

Then back to your eyes.

Quick.

Almost subtle.

But not enough.

Not when you’re watching her this closely.

Not when you’ve spent two summers thinking about nothing else.

Your heart stutters.

Hard.

Because this—

This is real.

She’s really here.

And she’s really looking at you like that.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Like maybe if you don’t, she’ll disappear.

She doesn’t.

Instead—

“Hey.”

Her voice is lower than you remember.

Rougher.

There’s something in it—something you can’t quite name—that makes your pulse spike instantly, your breath catching just slightly before you can stop it.

And—

There’s a faint pink at the tips of her ears.

You almost don’t believe it.

Clarisse La Rue.

Embarrassed?

Because of you?

The thought alone is enough to make your head spin.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your dress as you try to ground yourself.

Say something.

Anything.

But your mind—

Your mind is stuck.

Because she’s right there.

Closer now than she’s been in two years.

And she looks at you like—

Like she remembers.

Everything.

Before you can find your voice, she moves.

Steps past you, then lowers herself to sit beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she’s done it a hundred times before.

Like nothing changed.

Like time didn’t pass.

The space between you is small.

Not touching.

But close enough that you feel the heat of her beside you, the subtle shift of the air as she settles in.

Too close.

Not close enough.

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

Too loud.

You’re sure she can hear it.

“how was your year?”

The question is simple.

Casual.

But the way she says it—

The way her voice softens just slightly at the edges, like she’s trying not to make it a big deal—

Gives it weight.

More than it should have.

You glance at her.

She’s not looking at you now.

Not directly.

Her gaze is fixed somewhere ahead, jaw slightly tense, like she’s giving you space to answer without feeling like you’re being watched too closely.

But you can tell—

She’s listening.

Carefully.

You let out a small breath, steadying yourself.

“It was…” You trail off, searching for the right word.

How do you explain a year spent missing something you were never sure you had in the first place?

How do you explain—

You shake your head slightly, a soft, almost breathless laugh slipping out before you can stop it.

“Long.”

It’s not the whole truth.

But it’s enough.

For now.

Clarisse huffs quietly beside you, something almost like agreement in the sound.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “Same.”

A pause settles between you.

Not awkward.

Just… full.

Heavy with everything unsaid.

You glance at her again.

This time—

She’s already looking at you.

And the moment your eyes meet—

Something shifts.

Her gaze softens.

Just a fraction.

Barely noticeable.

But enough.

Enough that your breath catches again, your chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with something deeper.

Something you’ve been carrying for two summers.

Something you never quite let go of.

Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something else—

Then close again.

Like she thought better of it.

Like she’s not sure how to say whatever it is she’s thinking.

Clarisse La Rue.

At a loss for words.

Because of you.

The realization settles in slowly.

Warm.

Dangerous.

Hopeful.

Your fingers brush against each other, nervous energy settling into your movements, and before you can overthink it—before you can stop yourself—you shift just slightly closer.

Not enough to touch.

But enough.

Enough that the space between you feels intentional.

She notices.

Of course she does.

Her shoulders tense for half a second, her breath catching just slightly before she exhales slowly, controlled.

Then—

She doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t pull back.

Doesn’t create distance.

Instead—

She stays.

Right there.

Close.

Present.

Real.

And for the first time since you stepped onto that hill—

You feel something settle in your chest.

Not completely.

Not perfectly.

But enough.

Because she’s here.

And she didn’t walk away.

And neither did you.