Pearl had never been afraid of words.
She spoke easily, laughed loudly, and comforted others with soft promises and bright smiles. But when it came to him—when it came to Sharon—words became knots in her throat.
It was after study club, the sun dipping into shades of lavender, the campus almost empty. Pearl and Sharon walked side by side, the breeze cool against their skin, the world around them soft with the hum of cicadas.
They stopped near the old notice board, waiting for May and Aaron, who had run off to get ice cream. Pearl glanced at Sharon, who was looking at the sky, a gentle, thoughtful expression on his face.
"Sharon," she said, quietly, almost afraid the breeze would carry the word away.
He turned, eyes meeting hers, soft and attentive. "Yeah?"
Pearl opened her mouth, then closed it, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as her heart raced.
There was so much she wanted to say: that she liked the way he said her name, the way he looked at her like she was something precious, the way he saw her even on the days she felt invisible.
She wanted to say she liked him.
But the words wouldn't come out.
Sharon tilted his head, stepping a little closer, their arms almost brushing. "What is it, Star?"
She forced a small smile, shaking her head. "Nothing."
For a moment, neither of them moved, their eyes locked, the air charged with everything unspoken between them.
Pearl's fingers itched to reach for his hand, but she let them fall to her side.
And in that almost-confession, in that almost-moment, Pearl realized how terrifying it was to love someone you could lose.