Forty nine

Forty nine
Fallon
I wasn’t technically snooping.
I was exploring.
That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I wandered through one of the many unused rooms in Reid’s impossibly large mansion. The house was so pristine, so perfect, it barely felt lived in — all cold elegance and curated spaces that felt more like a museum than a home.
But this room was different.
The air smelled faintly of dust and old paper, and sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching the slow swirl of dust motes in the stillness. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, packed with books that looked untouched — their spines uncreased and colors faded. A worn armchair sat in the corner, its leather cracked and softened with age, the only sign that someone had ever spent time here.
It felt… forgotten.
Which made it all the more tempting.
I moved slowly, my fingers brushing over the shelves, the edges of the desk, the cool glass of framed black-and-white photos I didn’t stop to study. There was a quiet intimacy to this space, a stillness that felt like a secret.
And then I saw it.
A worn, leather-bound photo album, half-buried beneath a stack of old magazines on the bottom shelf.
I hesitated. Because this felt more personal than I had any right to. But curiosity — and maybe something deeper, something more painful — won out.
I knelt, easing it from its hiding place, and settled onto the floor with the heavy book in my lap. My fingers traced the cracked leather, the gold lettering long since faded.
And when I opened the cover — my breath caught.
Because there we were.
The first photo stopped me cold.
It was one of those summers our families used to spend vacationing together — back when everything was simpler, before life and expectations made it complicated. I couldn’t have been more than eight, my hair in messy pigtails and my face frozen mid-laugh, eyes crinkled and cheeks flushed with sun.
Beside me stood Reid.
Younger, leaner, his dark hair falling into his eyes. And he was smiling — wide and carefree in a way I hadn’t seen in years.
My fingers brushed over the image, the edges worn and soft from handling. The sight of us like that — so close, so happy — sent a strange ache through my chest.
We’d been everything to each other once. Before the world pulled us apart. Before distance and silence filled the spaces where words should’ve been.
I turned the page.
Flashback: Summers and Secret
The sun was high and hot, the lake stretching out like glass beneath the dock. I sat at the edge with my feet kicking lazily in the cool water, the wood warm beneath my palms.
“You’re gonna fall in,” Reid warned from behind me, his shadow falling long across the boards.
I twisted to look at him, grinning. “You’re just scared because you can’t swim.”
He rolled his eyes. “I can swim.”
“Barely.”
Before I could react, he lunged — his hands catching my waist as we tumbled into the lake in a tangle of arms and laughter.
The water was a shock, cold and bright, and when we surfaced, I was sputtering and shoving at his shoulders while he grinned that rare, mischievous grin.
“See?” he teased, pushing his wet hair back. “I’m fine.”
“You’re the worst,” I huffed, but I was smiling.
And when he splashed water at me, I didn’t hesitate before splashing him right back.
Back to Reality
The warmth of the memory faded as I turned another page. The photos shifted — birthday parties, school events, stolen moments frozen in time.
But slowly, the lightness dimmed.
Our teenage years bled into the album in a wash of formality and distance. The smiles became fewer, the space between us more obvious. And when we stood side by side, we never quite touched the way we used to.
One photo made me pause.
We were sixteen, standing on the edge of some formal event — both dressed in black, his hand barely brushing my back. I remembered the tension even then, the weight of things we weren’t saying, the beginning of the slow unraveling.
It had been the start of the end.
And maybe neither of us had known how to stop it.
~
The sharp click of a door closing echoed down the hall.
My heart jumped.
I snapped the album shut, my pulse pounding in my throat as I shoved it back into place. The room felt suddenly warmer, the air heavier, and I wiped my palms on my dress, brushing away dust that wasn’t there.
The house settled back into silence, but my heart wouldn’t calm.
Because I wasn’t sure why I felt guilty.
Or why the ache in my chest had nothing to do with the fear of getting caught — and everything to do with the weight of what I’d seen.

As I walked back to my side of the house, my mind stayed in the past.
In sunlit summers and shared secrets. In laughter that felt easy and hands that reached without hesitation.
What had happened to those kids?
When had the distance become easier than the closeness?
And why did it still hurt so much to remember?