Twelve Years Ago
During Winter Break

I'm alone in my bedroom, exactly where I plan to stay for the rest of the afternoon—wrapped like a burrito in my blanket, a bowl of popcorn balanced on my stomach and chocolate melting suspiciously fast in my hand. Love Actually is playing for the third time this week, which I fully justify because it's not a movie, it's a lifestyle.

I'm mid-emotional investment, right at the part where the Prime Minister is about to run through London and ruin an entire security protocol for love, when I hear it.

Thump.

I freeze.

Thump. Thump.

I squint toward the window.
Great. Either raccoons have learned choreography, or someone outside is trying to murder winter itself.

I sigh, shove the blanket off, and drag myself up to the window. Cold glass meets my forehead as I peer out, scanning the snowy yard, the street, the neighbors' porches.

Nothing.

I'm about to give up when my eyes lift—just a little—and land straight across the way.

A window.
Another bedroom.
Directly facing mine.

And... wow.

The room is aggressively organized.

There's a bookshelf, and the books aren't just neat—they're sorted by color. White spines together. Then black. Then brown. Then blue. It's unsettling. Like a museum exhibit curated by someone who alphabetizes their thoughts.

I shiver.

Serial killer behavior, if you ask me.

Another thump pulls my attention upward.

There's a boy—my age, maybe a year older—standing on a chair, arms stretched toward the ceiling, hammering something in place. He hops down, grabs a book, flips through it, then climbs back up again.

I lean closer to the glass.

He's putting stars on his ceiling.

Not random glow-in-the-dark stars, either. No. He opens the book—something with astronomy plastered across the cover—and holds it up, comparing page to ceiling, ceiling to page, adjusting each star like he's mapping the actual sky.

I blink.

Then I squint.

Then realization hits.

"Oh my God," I whisper to myself. "It's the nerd."

The hallway menace.
The book guy.
The one I knocked into earlier.

Of course it's him.

I watch, morbidly fascinated, as he painstakingly places another star, moving it a centimeter to the left, then back again, frowning in concentration like the fate of the universe depends on his accuracy.

I glance at my own ceiling.

Band posters. Crooked stars. A heart sticker stuck slightly too close to the smoke detector. Absolute chaos.

And here he is, recreating the cosmos.

"I can't believe this," I mutter. "He literally put the sky on his ceiling."

It's weird.
It's impressive.
It's deeply annoying that it's impressive.

I feel... something. Curiosity? Irritation? A strange urge to mess it up just to see what happens?

Before I can overthink it further, my door creaks open behind me.

"Maddie?" my mom calls.

I jump like I've been caught committing a crime and yank the curtain shut, tearing my eyes away from Nerd Observatory next door.

"Coming!" I shout, forcing myself to stop thinking about perfectly aligned constellations.

Downstairs, the kitchen smells like sugar and cinnamon and impending holidays. My mom is arranging Santa-shaped cookies onto a box, humming to herself like she's incapable of stress.

I immediately reach for one.

She slaps my hand—gently, but with intention.

"Hey!"

"Maddie," she says sweetly, "those are not for you."

I eye the cookies suspiciously. "Let me guess. Santa?"

"No," she says, lifting the box and handing it to me. "The neighbors."

I stare at it.

"No."

"Oh yes."

"I'm not going," I say firmly. "Absolutely not."

She sighs like she's been expecting this. "You already talked to the boy."

Talked is a generous term.

"And you're around the same age," she continues. "I told Martha you'd bring these over."

I frown. "Who's Martha?"

"Our neighbor. The boy's mother."

I clutch the box tighter. "He hates me."

My mom laughs. Actually laughs. "Oh honey, no one can hate that face."

She pinches my cheeks before I can dodge, plants a kiss on my forehead, and I groan.

"Mom. I'm fourteen."

"You're almost fifteen," she says. "That's different."

"It's really not."

She nudges the box back into my hands. "Just go say sorry. Last time didn't go so well, so this is your chance to fix it. I'm sure you'll be friends."

"Yeah," I say dryly. "Best friends."

Her eyes light up. "See? Progress."

That is not what I meant.

"Take a coat and a scarf," she adds cheerfully. "It's snowing."

Defeated, I grab my coat, wrap the scarf around my neck, and step outside with the cookies like I'm walking to my own execution.

As I climb the porch steps next door, snow crunching beneath my boots, I can't help but think—

If this goes badly, I'm blaming the stars.

I knock.

Almost immediately, the door opens—and instead of the boy, I'm met with a woman wearing a warm sweater, flour on her hands, and the kindest smile I've seen all day.

"Oh my," she says, eyes lighting up. "You must be Madison."

I blink.
"That obvious?"

She laughs. "Your mother told me all about you. You're adorable."

I feel my face heat up instantly.
"Oh—uh—my mom sent these," I say quickly, lifting the box of cookies like evidence. "For you."

Her smile somehow widens. "That's so thoughtful of her. Please thank her for me. I actually have something for her too, but it's not quite ready yet." She tilts her head. "Would you like to come in and wait for a bit?"

Every alarm bell my mother ever installed in my brain goes off at once.
Don't go into strangers' houses. Don't trust people you don't know. Stranger danger, Maddie.

And yet—my own mother sent me here. In the snow. With cookies.

Also, it's freezing.

So I nod. "Yeah. Thank you."

The warmth hits me immediately when I step inside. The house smells like cinnamon and wood polish, and everything feels... calm. Too calm.

Martha closes the door and heads toward the kitchen, leaving me standing awkwardly in the living room. I glance around—neat furniture, framed photos, everything painfully orderly. Even the silence feels organized.

Then I hear it again.

Thump.

I look toward the stairs before I can stop myself.

Martha notices. "Oh—Luke," she says, almost apologetically. "He's... very invested in recreating the night sky. Accurately."

I nod slowly. "Yeah. I noticed."

She smiles, a little shy. "You're about the same age. Do you want to go up and say hello? He might be a bit... intense about it, but I promise he won't bite."

That does not reassure me at all.

But—annoyingly—I'm curious. And there's a small, immature part of me that really wants to see if he still has pudding on his face.

So I follow her upstairs.

The sound grows louder, sharper, more obsessive. I reach the door before she can announce me and—without thinking—push it open.

"What are you—"

He turns, startled.

And immediately loses his balance.

There's a moment—just a moment—where I think he might recover.

He doesn't.

He falls. Hard. Right onto the floor.

I wince instinctively. "Oof."

He groans, sprawled on the ground, an astronomy book sliding open beside him. I don't move to help him. Instead, I crouch and pick up the book.

The page is black, dotted with tiny white stars. There are notes scribbled in the margins. Coordinates. Numbers.

Scotland.

I frown. "Why Scotland?"

He freezes.

Then pushes himself upright and snatches the book from my hands. "Because it's my favorite country."

I blink.
"...That's it?"

He glares. "What did you expect? A speech?"

I look up at the ceiling again. Perfect constellations. Measured. Precise. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest feel weird.

I shrug. "I don't know. Something less lame."

He straightens fully now. "I'm sorry my interests don't impress you."

"Well," I say lightly, "you did just fall on the floor, so the entrance was good."

"That was sarcasm," he snaps.

"I know."

He squints at me. "Do you know how to be polite?"

"Not really," I admit. "Depends on the person."

He stares at me for a long second. "You're a very weird girl."

I smile. "You're a very weird boy."

His eyes narrow. "You watch the same movie over and over again. Loudly. At night."

My stomach drops. "Are you watching me?"

"No," he says flatly. "I'm trying to sleep. And your movies echo through the wall like an emotional hostage situation."

I gape. "Excuse you."

"Yes," he continues calmly. "Late-night movie marathons are bad habits."

I scoff. "Says the guy mapping the Milky Way onto his ceiling."

"At least my habits are productive."

I roll my eyes. "Wow. You're such a nerd. You're never getting laid."

He looks genuinely horrified.

"Do you talk like this to everyone?" he asks.

"Well," I say thoughtfully, "we've met three times now."

"That does not grant you that level of familiarity."

"What—are you afraid of the word?"

"No," he says stiffly. "I just don't have that level of trust in you."

I sigh dramatically. "Okay. This was... enlightening. But I should go. Your mom is making something for my mom."

He hesitates, then mutters, "Yeah. Bye."

I reach the door, turn back once, and say sweetly, "I sincerely hope no one bullies you. You're very lame."

He blinks. "Same. I hope I never see you again."

I grin.
"Yeah. Same."