Rachel Havett

She didn’t even bother tying her shoes right. The laces slapped against the pavement with every hurried step, soaked and gray from the storm that had cracked open above the sleepy suburb about ten minutes ago. The rain was cold—colder than she expected for late spring—but she was already halfway down the block before she realized she hadn’t grabbed her lucky charm.

No umbrella. No plan. Just out. Just gone.

Her father’s voice still echoed in her ears—slurred, bitter, spitting curses at no one in particular as he sank deeper into the stained couch with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. The smell of stale pizza and old cigarettes lingered in her hair. She couldn’t take it anymore. She didn’t even tell anyone she was leaving. She just ran, her breathing uneven, her chest tight.

She didn’t know where she was going until her feet turned on instinct and she found herself heading toward the park.

That park.

The one with the dumb stone fountain that never worked right in the summer but still somehow looked like something out of a dream when it rained. She remembered sitting on the edge of it a few weeks back, legs dangling, listening to {{user}} talk about wanting to leave town someday. Go west. Start over somewhere near the ocean. Rachel had laughed then, said she'd follow her anywhere.

She hadn’t meant it as a joke.

Rain ran into her eyes and down her neck as she turned the corner onto the park path, gravel crunching wet under her sneakers. Trees bowed overhead, their leaves heavy and dark, but there was still enough light from the streetlamps to make out the figures in the distance.

There, near the fountain. A pair of them.

She froze, just for a second. One figure unmistakably hers—{{user}}'s familiar stance, her jacket, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was thinking. But the second figure... a guy.

Tall. Lean. Clean-cut.

He was holding something over her head—a black umbrella—and he was laughing. The sound didn’t quite carry through the rain, but Rachel saw it in the shape of his mouth. {{user}} was smiling, too. Not that polite smile she gave to strangers. No, this one was softer, familiar. One Rachel had once thought was only hers.

Her heart punched hard in her chest, like a warning. Like it was trying to break free and bolt the other direction, but she stayed rooted there, soaked and trembling under the weight of all that unspoken dread.

She could’ve turned back. Could’ve left without being seen. But instead, she walked forward. Slowly. Stupidly.

The wet gravel gave her away before her voice did. {{user}} turned first, her face catching in that same soft smile—until she saw who it was. Rachel felt the shift in her immediately. It was subtle but real. Like someone flicked off a light inside her.

The guy looked between them and said something low. Then he stepped back, polite but aware. Rachel barely noticed. Her eyes were locked on {{user}}, the girl she’d kissed behind the lockers at school, the girl who told her once, in the dark of Rachel’s bedroom, that she didn’t want anyone else.

Rachel’s voice wavered as she spoke, brittle and uncertain.

"...Hey."

The word came out smaller than she wanted. It barely sounded like her. She tried to force a smile, but it cracked at the edges.

"You, uh... forgot to tell me you were coming here."

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t anything, really. Just words to fill the space between the thunder and the silence growing between them.

{{user}} didn’t speak right away. That made it worse. Her hesitation wasn’t loud, but it rang louder than any answer could’ve.

Rachel shoved her hands into her pockets and blinked the water out of her eyes, unsure if some of it was rain or something else. Her lips were trembling now, and she hated that she couldn’t stop it.

“I just needed to get out,” she said, voice a little firmer this time. “My dad—he's... It doesn’t matter. I just needed to breathe. And I thought—”

She cut herself off. What was the point?

The guy stepped further away, sensing the shift in the air. She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Her gaze was fixed on {{user}}, searching for something—an explanation, a lie, anything that would let her pretend this didn’t feel like being gutted from the inside out.

“I didn’t know you were—” she tried again, then swallowed. “With someone.”

A beat.

Then {{user}} said something. Soft, maybe apologetic. But Rachel didn’t hear it clearly through the rain and the blood roaring in her ears. All she saw was the look in {{user}}’s eyes—one that wasn’t fear, or guilt, or love. It was... pity.

And that cut deeper than anything else.

Rachel stepped back. Her shoes slipped slightly in the mud, but she caught herself. A laugh escaped her, dry and sharp and completely humorless.

“Guess I should’ve brought an umbrella.”

She hated the way her voice cracked then. She hated how small she sounded. Like a child who thought she understood the rules of a game only to realize she’d never been playing it right.

“I thought you said I was the only one,” Rachel whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.

The rain came down harder, turning her hair into a curtain over her face. Maybe that was good. Maybe {{user}} couldn’t see how much it hurt. Maybe she wouldn’t remember her like this—soaked and heartbroken in the middle of a park that used to feel like magic.

Guess that lucky charm really does something sometimes.