November 13.
I don't know why that date felt important, but it did.
Maybe because the air was colder, the sky softer. Maybe because school had felt a little less overwhelming. Or maybe because Olivia grabbed my sleeve after the last bell and said, "Come on. Let's go somewhere real."
She led me to the forest behind the school—the place where the trees tangled into each other like old friends and the light slipped through the branches in thin, golden strips. I had never been there before, but Olivia walked like she'd known the path her whole life.
We sat on a fallen log, backpacks tossed aside. The leaves crackled under our shoes. And for some reason, everything seemed funny. Absolutely everything.
My laugh echoed through the trees, loud and unfiltered. Olivia laughed too—this rare, sudden burst that sounded like she'd forgotten she was allowed to.
"Okay, okay," I said, wiping my eyes, "stop making me laugh. My stomach hurts."
"That's your fault," she said, nudging a stick with her shoe. "You laugh at everything I say."
"Because you say things like they're obvious and they're not!" I protested.
She shrugged like always. "Just truth. People hate truth."
"I don't," I said softly.
Olivia glanced at me then, her dark eyes catching a flash of the fading sunlight. Almost like she was checking if I meant it.
We fell into a calmer silence, listening to the wind move between the branches. I curled my hands around the ends of my long blond hair, feeling that nervous excitement that only came around her.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" I asked suddenly.
Olivia raised an eyebrow. "Why? Planning my future for me?"
"I'm just curious."
She thought about it for a second. "You go first."
"Fine." I sat up straighter. "I want to be a journalist."
She tilted her head. "Figures."
"What does that mean?" I laughed.
"You see things," she said simply. "You notice everyone. You're soft enough to care but strong enough to want the truth. That's a journalist."
I blinked at her. She made it sound like she'd been studying me.
"What about you?" I asked.
Olivia leaned back on her hands, staring at the thin ribbon of sky visible through the branches.
"An astronaut," she said.
I froze. "Really?"
"Yeah." She kicked a leaf aside. "I want space. Quiet. No people telling me who to be. Just… stars. Distance."
She said it like she'd already lived there. Like she'd already breathed that faraway air.
"You'd be a good astronaut," I whispered.
"Why?"
"Because you're already half in your own universe."
She looked at me again—really looked. Her lips pressed together in a tiny, almost-smile that she tried to hide.
"You think so?"
"I know so."
The wind swept through the clearing, lifting my hair and tossing Olivia's short black strands across her face. She didn't push them away.
We just sat there—two girls on a fallen log, November light fading around us, dreaming out loud like the world wasn't too big for us after all.
It was November 13.
The forest smelled like cold leaves.
And for the first time since moving here, I felt like the date meant something.
Maybe because I had someone to share it with.
Someone who made the world feel less sharp.
Someone who made the future sound like something worth imagining.
Someone named Olivia.