I was on the way to Boston when I thought of this. The Train CD, My Private Nation, was playing. A song call Lincoln Avenue came on, and as I listened, the fic wrote itself. It's just a one-shot, isn't necessarily connected to Going On Seventeen. But I didn't want the idea to slip away from me, so I typed it out, and here it is.

She is unmistakable. Still beautiful. Her bountiful red hair falls past her shoulders. And those freckles, dispersed heavily across her face, but most concentrated along the bridge of her nose. She is dressed in all white. Light streams through the doorway from inside her little house, the home I helped her find seven years ago after she graduated from Hogwarts. The home she was so zealous to own, as she's always been independent. The home that I, until now, was too self-absorbed to return to. And the girl. The red-headed angel that I left behind. The light that illuminates her is slightly blinding me, as I've been walking in this pitch darkness for hours. When I started out, I wasn't sure of my destination. Yet perhaps I knew, subconsciously, that I'd end up here. Because, now that I see her, I wonder if here is where I've always belonged. Her eyes don't dazzle the way they used to. They used to be so bright. They used to shine with such eagerness that they reflected light just like mirrors, and I was never positive what color they were. I see now that they are a dark blue. A blue that sparkles with bewilderment and sadness. Her gaze, both surprised and weary, make my heart ache with regret. Why was I so stupid? Why did I leave her behind? I hear music from inside her house.

Well I guess that this is where I left my life . . .

He is unmistakable. The bold, emerald eyes that I used to fear, but grew to love. I can see them, remember them, so clearly, even though his glasses are streaked with rain. The jet-black hair, usually sticking up in all directions, has been matted to his forehead by the heavy drops. He has been outside for a while. He slouches, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. His whole body is sagging, weighed down with both water and years of stressful work. The work that was far more important than anything else. The work that tore him away from me. The way he stands makes him look young and vulnerable, though his face is no longer unwrinkled. It has been six years since he last owled me. Seven since I last saw him. He was truly the last person I expected to be calling when I answered his knock at the door. A song has begun playing on my stereo, one that has always reminded me of him. And now, as if on cue, here he is. Standing on my doorstep in a torrential downpour after not contacting me for six years. Why has he come back? After so long, why is he here? I don't know how to feel.

This feels like the place between

What is and what might have been . . .

I know I should speak, but I don't know what to say. I suppose I could ask to come inside, as the rain has seeped through my clothing, causing me to shiver. But I can tell by the way she stares that she is unsure. Her stance, too, is hesitant. I decide I cannot ask to enter because I know she's too kind to say no. Instead, I simply say her name as a way of greeting. Her expression does not change as she whispers my own name in response.

He says nothing. However, it is not awkward. We often used to share meaningful silence when we were teenagers at school. Life was easier then, before his work started to take up all his time. We were in love. Which is why, when he stopped writing, it pained me so immensely. My soul is tattered from years of waiting, of hoping. He finally speaks my name. I answer with his, though I can barely hear my own voice over the rain, and the music that plays.

So I guess that this is where we both find out

If this was meant to be . . .

I must tell her I'm sorry. That I would do anything to start over. I would give up everything I've worked for. Gladly. Because it was the work, combined with my own ignorance, that so sorely jumbled my priorities. Somewhere along the line, I lost track of what's important in life. Our growing apart is only my fault. I don't deserve her. I'm not worthy of all she has to offer. She's beautiful, standing so still, her hand resting on the doorknob. I want to tell her how I've missed her for the past seven years. But my voice is stopped by an invisible wall as I open my mouth, the unsaid words sinking into the back of my throat, leaving a bittersweet taste.

He wants to speak. I can tell. I always used to know when he had something to say, and I suppose I haven't lost that ability. I can feel his mind reeling, searching for an explanation. I remember him, seven, eight, nine years ago. He has on the same befuddled expression that he always used to wear before speaking carefully thought-out words. Tears spring to my eyes as memories flood my already disoriented mind, but I force them not to fall. They perch along my lower eyelid, quivering dangerously, my eyelashes the sole barrier between a straight face and a complete breakdown. His mouth opens, then closes once more. A slight scowl on his lips, he runs his fingers through his hair. In that motion, he becomes even more like the boy I remember. His scar reveals itself, the lightning-bolt cut that he always tried to hide. His wet hair now sticks up in places, untidy, just like his father, as everybody used to tell him. The song plays on.

Now it takes me back . . .

There are tears in her eyes, and she is fighting them back. She never liked to cry in front of anyone. The remorse is overwhelming now. I feel faintly choked up myself. It always tortured me, to see her this way. But I realize that it is nothing compared to what I've done to her. I tell her I don't know why I stopped writing. I say, maybe because I was afraid. But truthfully, I don't know. Countless times in the past six years I've sat, parchment and quill in hand. Yet after racking my brain, for often hours at a time, the parchment would remain blank. And the few instances in which I did scribble down a sentence or two, the paper would end up shredded in the trash bin. Then I would try to sleep, in one of the thousands of hotel beds all over the country I've resided in. But sleep would never come. I would lie awake, asking myself why I couldn't owl her, but to this day I do not know the answer. I tell her all of this. She turns her face to the side, shaking her head, a curtain of hair hiding her face. I know she is crying. I want to hold her, dry her tears.

You said you'd never get tired of the boy

That seemed to be so far from growing up

But we were different then . . .

Suddenly, he opens his mouth again. He tells me he always meant to write me, but somehow never could. There is a touch of hopelessness in his voice. His eyes are gleaming as apologetic words spill from him, as if he's wanted to speak them all his life. He stutters, desperate to get everything out. I cannot bear to look at him anymore. My eyes have become so full, and I hide my face as the tears stream across my cheeks. How can he stand here, apologizing for six years of utter neglect? Does he expect things to go back to the way they were? Trembling, I tell him to walk away. Without looking at him, I say, just walk away.

I'll tell myself I don't need you

I'll tell myself enough to get me through . . .

I inhale, realizing I haven't breathed in a while. I listen, my regret amplifying with each of her choking sobs. I tell her not to cry, but I don't think she hears me. Still concealed by a veil of her fiery red hair, she tells me to leave. Just walk away, she says, her voice shaking. I plead in despair. I tell her I was stupid, egotistical, to have stopped owling. Breathless, I apologize a dozen times, tell her I want to start over, that she has always been the most important thing to me, that I was blind not to have chosen the right path. She only shakes her head. My heart shrinks as I slip from her doorstep, the rain still pounding. How did I let my life become like this? I am so lost. Walking away from the only girl I have ever loved. And I am walking away because my own selfishness has bruised her so badly that she cannot even look at me. What have I done?

I should have been here with you every day . . .

He sputters something about giving him a second chance, but his voice sounds distant. He apologizes, he tells me I've been the only thing that matters. I shake my head, salty beads of water flooding my face. He once told me, back when we were in school, that he'd always be there for me. I believed him. Seems so ridiculous in retrospect. He is no longer talking. I only hear the music, and the rain. And then, soggy footsteps. I jerk my head up and watch him trudge through puddles toward the road. Questions race through me. Am I making a mistake? Will I ever see him again? He turns back to me, now only a slumping silhouette. I wonder if he can see me crying through the rain. He calls to me, his voice muffled by the drops slapping the pavement, that he loves me.

I'll tell myself that I never needed anybody, anyway . . .

I turn to her when I reach the road. She is watching me, a dark shape in the doorframe. I wonder if she can see me crying through the rain. I shout to her that I love her, then resume walking, at a quicker pace. I never stopped loving her; I was only afraid of the damage love could do. But now I understand, far too late, that what causes the most damage is love that is forced aside. Love that is deserted for things that may seem more important, but never, ever are. I have been so blind. But now, there are footsteps following me. I turn. It is her. The girl that deserves better, the girl I love, need.

I need you now

He loves me. Without a thought, I abandon the doorframe and chase after his receding shadow. I am quickly coated by a blanket of frigid water. My hair falls limp. Soon, he hears me, and we face each other. Through chattering teeth, I tell him I love him too, that I never stopped. More hot tears become icy as they leak from my eyes. I love him, I need him. No more words are necessary.

I need you now

She loves me. This is where I left my life. Right here, in her arms.

He holds me, rocks me, and I know that this is where I belong.

I'm ready now.