Amy’s POV
The moment the plane touched down and I looked out the window to see the familiar skyline of my hometown, something in me stirred. It wasn’t quite nostalgia. It wasn’t quite longing. It was a quiet ache, a reminder of who I used to be and how far I’d come.
Winter break had arrived, and for the first time since summer, I was back.
I hadn’t known what to expect. I knew things had changed while I was gone. I had changed. But the second I walked out of the terminal and saw my dad waving frantically at baggage claim like I was a celebrity, I couldn’t help but laugh. He pulled me into a huge hug, nearly lifting me off the ground.
“You’re glowing,” he said, holding me at arm’s length. “Is it New York? Or success? Or… new shampoo?”
I rolled my eyes, but my heart felt full. “It’s probably the shampoo.”
When we got home, I found that my room had been cleaned, dusted, and even redecorated a little. My bed had new sheets, there was a framed picture of me and James on my nightstand, and someone had stocked my favorite snacks in the kitchen.
Even more surprising, my phone buzzed the night I arrived home with a message that made my breath catch.
Mom: I heard you’re back. Welcome home, sweetheart.
It wasn’t a full apology. It wasn’t hours of heart-to-hearts or overdue conversations. But it was something. And for now, I was willing to accept that.
James picked me up the next afternoon. He didn’t say anything when I stepped into his car. He just smiled, leaned across the seat, and kissed my forehead softly.
“I missed that face,” he whispered.
We didn’t go anywhere fancy. He drove us to the football field behind our old high school—the place where so many of our memories still lived. The stands were empty, the grass slightly frosted from the cold, but the bleachers creaked the same way they always had when we climbed them.
We walked slowly, our fingers intertwined. I could feel my heart settle with every step.
When we reached the fifty-yard line, he stopped and turned to me.
“I have something for you,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows, curious. “James, it’s not even Christmas yet.”
“I couldn’t wait,” he replied, pulling a small, carefully wrapped package from his jacket pocket. “Open it.”
Inside the wrapping paper was a leather-bound journal. It was soft, deep red, with gold lettering on the front that read:
Red Rising: A Summer I Won’t Forget
My fingers traced the cover as I opened it.
Inside were photos—some printed, some Polaroids—of us. At the lake. On the rooftop. In my apartment in New York. At prom. There were screenshots of texts we’d exchanged, doodles of inside jokes, and even copies of the letters I had mailed him during our long-distance stretch.
My eyes blurred before I even made it halfway through.
“You’re too much,” I whispered, clutching the book against my chest.
He looked at me, smiling that quiet, sure smile he always wore when he meant every word.
“Not for you,” he said.
We didn’t talk much after that. We didn’t need to. We just sat in the bleachers as the sky darkened around us, wrapped in scarves and each other’s presence, warm despite the cold.
When I got home later that evening, I changed into my softest pajamas, lit the candle James had once told me smelled like “fall and bookstores,” and curled up with the leather book again. I flipped through every page slowly, letting each memory settle into my chest like a piece of home.
Then, I saw the envelope.
It had been left on the hallway table with the rest of the day’s mail—simple, white, addressed to me in formal print. I opened it lazily, not expecting much. But as I unfolded the paper, my eyes widened.
I read the first line twice just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.
“Congratulations, Amy Garcia. You’ve been nominated for the National Youth Innovation Award for your contributions during the NYC summer internship program.”