WildFire

15

You were back. Back in your old room. 

Trunks full of old supplies still lay there–untouched and dusty. There was still a small butterfly you painted when you were very young, right behind the door so your parents wouldn't find it–its morpho wings were still a bit oddly shaped, if you didn't know better, you might have assumed it was just a blue blob.

You inhaled, then let out a small cough. It was really dusty.

 Inside, you wondered why your mother never bothered to clean it in the three years you were gone, but then again, she wasn't really obligated to. You were grateful there weren't any spider webs though, nor were there any creepy insect infestations. It was just your room–just a little bit more dirty.

You threw your bag back down on the floor, and flopped onto your soft bed, glazing up at the ceiling. To your dismay, your height was still similar to your twelve-year self–if only a little taller than you were before.

"I wonder how tall he is now," you murmured, thinking about a certain otter-like boy. The sudden curiosity made you jolt up, and run back outside.

"[Name]?" your mother called, her voice cautious. "What are you doing?"

"Going out for a bit," you answered, wondering if she would try to stop you.

You would stay if she asked, but the sudden pull you felt was so strong, so powerful that you wanted to bolt out right then and there to see if you were right.

"Okay," she agreed, and you felt a wave of gratitude flow through you when she didn't even ask you where you were going. "Your uniform is in the dryer. By the way, are you sure you don't want me to drive you tomorrow?"

You shook your head, wanting to walk. 

You had always walked in elementary, and in junior high–mostly because your dad was too busy sleeping in to drive you. But now, it had become a habit–the feeling of the cool, brisk air brushing your cold cheeks as you speed-walked along the pavement.

When your mom nodded and went back to work, you raced outside, feeling your heart race as you walked down very familiar paths. 

As you walked by your neighbor's yard, you took a peek. You saw the flowers you had painted as a child–just starting to bud. The tree hadn't grown much, and somehow, that made you happy.

Some things really hadn't changed.

Trees of green and grass a slightly lighter shade came into view in front of you. You felt something swell in your chest, and a smile broke onto your face as you ran into the park, glancing around.

Your face fell as you scanned the park again–deciding to wait another ten minutes to see. You dared hope that you would spot a pair of familiar snarky eyes watching you with an amused expression, but you didn't.

He wasn't here.

"I'm such an idiot," you breathed out, as you walked back to your house. 

You had really hoped–really thought–but it didn't matter. You would see him tomorrow anyways, if he hadn't already left Miyagi.

You weren't sure exactly what you would do if you saw him–or if he saw you. Would he even recognize you? It's been three years, afterall.

Thoughts of doubt filled your mind as you stunted down the pavement, hands in your pockets, head down to hide your disappointed expression–not that anyone was looking. There was no need to be impatient though, because you'll find out tomorrow anyways.

"Tomorrow," you murmured, glancing up. "Somehow it feels too soon–even after three years of waiting."