I didn't really know what to say as we headed down the hill. From my house to the beach was only a ten minute walk, but it'd feel a lot longer if we stayed in silence.

The whole thing was just so out-of-the-blue. Maybe once upon a time Owen would've shown up unexpectedly at my house, but things were different now. Times had changed, as had everything between us. Wasn't it kind of weird to do this for an ex?

Then again, it was perfectly innocent. Hanging out didn't have any other connotations; it meant exactly that. Perhaps dwelling on the idea was what made it seem strange. And just a few days ago, I'd been fixated on the idea of getting to know Owen again – why shouldn't I just embrace it?

So I did.

"Where are we headed?" I asked, as we emerged from my residential cul-de-sac and onto the main trail down to Walden seafront.

"Well," he said, "I was thinking the beach. The weather's great, and it's looking like it'll hold up into the evening. Would be a shame to waste it, right?"

"Sure," I said. "Let's do it."

"Did you have dinner plans?"

"Not really," I told him. "I mean, not unless you count my mum's home cooking, but it doesn't take much to drag me away from that."

He raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

"Well, it's edible," I said, "but that's about all you can say. So whatever alternative you're proposing, I'm in."

"Great. Because I was going to suggest grabbing some food on the way and making a picnic of it. Just like we used to."

For a moment, I didn't say anything—because the train of thought it led me on went far too deep, and the memories that resurfaced hit me like a tidal wave. The summer before uni, the whole picnic-on-the-beach thing had become almost a ritual for Owen and I. It was something we did a few times, but then ended up loving so much we couldn't stay away. At one point, I'd lived for those evenings on the beach, eating ready-made Tesco sandwiches and cocktail sausages, talking about anything and everything to the backdrop of crashing waves. Some of my best memories were there on that shore. And yet I was still the one that'd ended it all.

The words came back to me just in time. "Yeah," I said to Owen. "That sounds great."

That made our first stop the mini supermarket on the main street, and we stepped inside the air-conditioned shop ten minutes later. Owen grabbed a basket from the stack by the door and headed for the first aisle.

"So I'm thinking," he began, already taking charge, "bagels. For some reason, I'm craving them—don't ask me why. Then a good range of fillings, because you know, just the one is boring. Thoughts?"

I couldn't help smiling. "Honestly, I think you've got this covered," I told him. "I wholeheartedly trust your decision."

"I'm taking the heat if I get this wrong, then." He reached for a packet of bagels on the shelf and dropped them into the basket. "The pressure's on."

I followed him down the aisle as we moved to the refrigerators. Sliced cheese got a yes, as did chicken, but the pack of smoked salmon he picked up right after got a shake of the head and a return to the shelf. I couldn't help but watch amusedly as he mulled over each choice carefully, reaching the decision with some kind of internal logic I couldn't work out, but also couldn't argue with. Only once the savouries had been taken care of and we made our way toward the bakery aisle did I find myself forced to make a decision of my own.

"Donuts," he said, holding up a pack decorated with white icing and sprinkles, "or muffins?" Another pack with plenty of chocolate chips. "Choose wisely."

My gaze drifted between the two options, considering. I liked both, and probably so did Owen, but I felt like there was going to be great judgment in whatever I chose. I had to try my luck.

I seized the donuts. "These."

"You know what? You're right," he said, and the fact that I was so overjoyed to be given his approval made me laugh. "An excellent decision."

"I tried," I said, grinning as the pack was dropped into our basket.

With the shopping spree complete and our picnic well-stocked, we headed to the till. I reached for my purse, because it felt rude not to at least pay my share, but Owen was having none of it.

"It's fine," he said, waving me off. "I've got it."

"I'm going to be eating half. So let me pay half."

"The maths is more hassle than it's worth," he said, though it was hardly a complicated sum, and his logical brain could probably calculate it in a second flat. "Don't worry about it."

I wanted to persist, but it didn't seem up for debate. "Well, I'll pay you back some other time."

I knew he was just being polite, but I couldn't help feeling a little miffed regardless. Was I thinking too much into it, or was it a dig? We both knew his website building paid a lot more than my part-time wage from the arcade. In some way, it was just another reminder that I'd failed to secure a decent graduate job—as if my bank account had suffered to the point where picking up snacks was a stretch.

But there wasn't time to dwell on it. The cashier had already packed our buys, and Owen was tapping his card on the contactless machine before scooping up the bag. I followed him out of the shop, and we stepped out onto the street, greeted by a gust of wind that swept my hair in all the wrong directions.

He looked across at the seafront, which sat just on the other side of the road, before turning to me. "Let's go."

Three years spent in London, and never once had I missed the feel of pebbles underfoot as I stepped onto the beach—but as we did so then, I wondered how I'd ever lived without it. All of it—the crunch of my steps, wind through my hair, roaring of the sea—was pure nostalgia: years-old memories wrapped up in a moment that hit me all at once. How many times had Owen and I done this before? Stumbled across this very beach, sometimes hand-in-hand, trying not to fall since our shoes were never practical. Too many times, long ago.

And now, after everything, we were adding one more.

Late afternoon sunshine filtered through the clouds overhead. A lot of beachgoers were already packing up their belongings, getting ready to head to dinner or get a head start on the drive home. We were the latecomers, stepping onto the shore just as most people's days came to a close. Before long, the place would empty around us.

We picked a spot—a compromise between Owen's sensible far-back-off-the-shore option and my insistence that we had to hear the waves—and rolled out beach towels into a makeshift blanket. I sunk down too hard, for a split second mistaking pebbles for much softer sand, realising then I'd probably have a backside bruise tomorrow. He didn't give me much sympathy.

Only once we were both settled, lying back with the shopping bag between us, did I realise exactly what my stomach wanted.

Owen laughed as I started ripping into it, but that didn't stop me. "Hungry?"

"Suddenly starving," I told him, pulling out the packet of mini sausage rolls I'd been thinking about hardest. "Aren't you?"

"Yeah, who am I kidding? I'm not going to be polite about this one."

And so the picnic began to be demolished in what had to be record timing. I'd never felt self-conscious about eating in front of guys, and I wasn't about to start for one I'd known for years. We were both equally shameless about the whole thing—battling with plastic knives to secure the last bit of good sandwich spread, choosing not to tell him until way too late that there was a blob of cream cheese on his chin, growing bored of normal combinations and starting to experiment with much grosser ones. It was just a selection of budget snacks, but it was the most fun I'd had at dinner in a long while.

"God, we used to do this all the time, didn't we?" I said, once our stomachs were much fuller and we'd both started to lounge back on the towels. "And spend hours here every time."

"Yeah, I know." He chuckled. "I think my parents thought I was lying every time I said we were coming here. They couldn't work out why I was out so long. I'm sure they thought I was sneaking out somewhere else."

Jokingly, I raised an eyebrow. "Really? Where would you have been sneaking out to?"

He pretended to look offended. "What are you implying? That I'm boring?"

"Not boring," I said. "You just play by the rules."

"Or you think I play by the rules. You know, Sydney, I could have a double life. An entirely secret other life. I'm good at keeping things quiet. You wouldn't suspect a thing."

"And what would this secret life involve?"

"I don't think you're really grasping the meaning of secret," Owen said. "I'm not going to give up the game now. Not when I've got this far."

I couldn't help rolling my eyes. "Whatever you say."

For a moment, he didn't say anything, absorbed in his own train of thought. Then, "You know, I would have an awesome double life."

"You're already kind of leading one already," I pointed out. "Setting up your own business, you know—leading your new adult life. Then, every so often, putting on that God-awful red polo and coming back to the bright lights and glamour of the arcade."

He laughed. "Actually, that's kind of true."

"Why do you even go back there?" I asked. "I mean, if I could be anywhere else, I certainly would. And yet you wear that thing with pride, like it's the job you always dreamed of after graduating. I've never known someone be so positive about it."

"It never hurts to be positive."

"I think it'd hurt me." I tried to say it with a straight face, but Owen's look of amusement had the smile creeping onto my face anyway. "Ugh, come on. You know me. Is it in my nature to put on a smile and act like the arcade's everything I want in life?"

"Definitely not. I'd pass out from shock."

"Not everyone can be a ray of sunshine," I said. "And I didn't volunteer."

He laughed at that: a real laugh, one that tipped his head back and reverberated through his chest. I didn't realise it until then, but I hadn't heard the real thing in years.

"So you're not an optimist," he said. "Not a big deal. You do you."

"But what if I do me and end up a miserable old woman?"

"Then you'll be a miserable old woman," he said simply. "But you'll still be Sydney."

I gave him a look. "That doesn't make me feel better."

He grinned. "I wasn't going for making you feel better. I was going for honesty."

Like he always did. Owen, of course, had never been one for beating around the bush—and once upon a time it'd been one of the things I loved most about him. You always knew where you stood. If your ass looked terrible in those jeans, he wouldn't lie and tell you that you looked great. If a salad leaf from lunch stuck around in your teeth, he'd be the first to point and laugh. And if it ever so happened that you found him between your legs, you definitely wouldn't get away with faking it.

The last thought crept into my head without warning, and it was already too late to push it away. I could feel my cheeks heating, and all I could do was pretend to look out across the beach to avoid Owen's gaze.

Where did that even come from? The conversation hadn't led us anywhere close, and yet my mind chose to wander there anyway. Three years on, revisiting what I definitely shouldn't have been. It was probably frustration—as it wasn't like I'd made up for much in the time since.

There'd been a few, of course. If I made up my mind, bringing somebody back from a uni night out wasn't exactly a hard ask—especially once I'd learnt the art. Admittedly, it wasn't my finest hour. There was always that vaguely bitter taste of shame in the morning, one I couldn't quite distinguish from alcohol and stale breath. Not to mention the sex was average at best. Did mind-blowing one-night-stands even exist, or were they just a myth we were all chasing? The anticipation on the way home was exciting, sure, but that was about as good as things got. Four minutes of disappointing missionary just couldn't live up to someone who knew you inside out.

"What are you looking at?"

I'd been staring too long, making myself look far too interested in what was really nothing on the other side of the beach. Owen had noticed, and if there was ever a moment to channel some of his honesty, this certainly wasn't it.

"Nothing," I said. "Just thinking."

"Anything worth sharing?"

Like the thought didn't make me want to die. "Not at all."

"You're a closed book, Sydney," he said, smiling a little to himself. "You know that?"

"I know," I said. "In fact, I pride myself on it."

"So tell me something." He leaned back on his elbows, reclining further onto the stones. "Something you wouldn't normally say. I want to read your first chapter."

For a few seconds, all I found myself capable of was staring. "Jesus, what are you?" I said eventually. "The protagonist in a teen fiction novel? That's got to be one of the cringiest lines I've ever heard."

He laughed. "You know what I mean. I'm just intrigued."

My brows furrowed into a sceptical frown. "Well, I don't know what you're intrigued about. We already know each other. If you want to put it that way, you've already read my first chapter—actually, you're probably three quarters of the way through the book."

"That's what I once thought," he said, "but the book's gone through some heavy revisions since I last picked it up."

At this point, I couldn't help rolling my eyes. "Okay. We're definitely done with the book metaphors."

"You're spoiling the fun," he said, joking. "But really, though. What I mean is that it's been three years. Three years at uni, too. Nobody comes back from uni the same person they were when they left. You could be someone else these days, and I wouldn't have any idea."

"I don't think it's as dramatic as me being someone else," I told him. "I've just grown up a little. You know, the usual."

"Do you still write?"

I gave him a questioning look. "Write? Did I ever write?"

"You used to keep a journal," he said. "Half reality, half fiction, you told me. Some kind of exaggerated recollection of reality. Though I do remember being told I'd have a death wish if I ever tried to look inside."

And just like that, he'd brought it back: a memory I hadn't even uncovered myself for so long. He was right. I had kept a journal, one I invested more time in than I probably would've been willing to admit. It started off as a diary, but there was only a certain level of interesting my day-to-day life could be, especially in a place like Walden. So I'd started exaggerating—turning the whole thing into a work of fiction founded on my own experiences, told by a voice that was an extension of my own. It was a good outlet. There was something destressing about channelling my thoughts through somebody else, whose views and opinions didn't have to come with my name attached.

I stopped writing when I broke up with Owen. It seemed wrong to break things off for no real reason with my main character's love interest, especially when their relationship had been developing so steadily. A breakup would be harsh, an ending too abrupt. So the journal was closed for good, and left behind in my room when I packed my things up for uni. I hadn't thought about it since.

"Oh, yeah, I suppose I did," I said, after the few seconds' pause. "Not anymore. I guess I grew out of it."

"Out of writing?"

"Out of all that imagination," I said with a shrug. "I don't know. I guess I just got onto different things when I went to uni. It wasn't something I had the urge to do anymore."

Owen's tone was gentle. "That's a shame."

I shrugged again. "Not really. It wasn't much good, anyway. More like something to pass the time." It felt uncomfortable to talk about myself like this—especially when it came to something that had once been so personal. It would never come up in conversation with anybody else; this was all Owen. And that was my cue to move on. "But what about you? Do you still count yourself as the same person?"

He seemed to take a moment to think about it, staring out to sea rather than focusing anywhere near me. I watched too as each wave crashed onto the shore, creeping up the stones before changing its mind and rushing back out again. The constant, repetitive motion was at least something certain in this conversation.

"More or less," he said eventually. "I mean, I don't think I've changed, but I'm not so sure I can give an accurate evaluation myself. It's probably likely that I've grown up, too."

"With an apartment and an adult job to match."

He smiled. "Yeah. I guess so. Slightly scary, isn't it?"

"I don't know," I said. "I think it's just as scary not having them."

He peered at me curiously, as if trying to work me out. "Living at home doesn't mean you're not an adult."

"I know, I know," I said dismissively, like the whole thing didn't bother me—though it did more than I would ever admit to him. "It's not like I'm going to be there forever. I'm sure once the summer's over, things will fall into place and I'll be able to move back to London. And, you know, these few months will feel like a brief stopover."

Owen was still looking at me, the corner of his lip curled into a slight smile that I couldn't work out. "There's where you haven't changed."

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Always doing whatever you can to run away from Walden," he said. "That's your thing, isn't it?"

For a moment, I didn't know what to say. Part of me wondered whether I should even be offended, but the rest of me knew it wasn't Owen's intention. It was just an observation—and a true one, at that.

"I don't mean for it to be my thing," I said. "It's not that there's anything wrong with the place. I mean, for some people, the whole quiet coastal village thing is idyllic. But, I don't know... I just feel like there's something more. There's life beyond this place, you know? Places where the shops don't close at six p.m. on the dot, and there's more going on than bingo night every Wednesday. Being stuck here is just kind of... stifling."

"I feel you," he said. "Well, kind of. I definitely feel you on the whole bingo thing, because honestly, it was pretty hard to explain to Katie that it is the most exciting thing going on. You probably won't see us down there."

"Right." I managed a small smile. "Because I've been waiting to find you there all this time."

The mention of her must've triggered some kind of train of thought, because Owen pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time. "Oh, wow, we've been here a while," he said. "I should probably think about heading back. Sunday's kind of become laundry day, and I'm not sure I'll be very popular if I abandon her on that level of excitement."

"Oh," I said, hoping it didn't come out sounding too deflated. "Yeah. I should probably be getting back too."

There was no reason for me to hurry, but it seemed a little pathetic to admit my whole night was free for us to stay. Plus, the mention of something as domesticated as laundry day sent an uncomfortable pang through my chest anyway. It was crazy how something so unremarkable could represent such a serious, adult relationship. And by default, it just reminded me how far away I was from the same thing.

Owen was already gathering himself to his feet, so I did the same. I picked up the hoodie I'd been sitting on and tied it around my waist as he grabbed our now-empty bag of food. After giving the spot a quick scan to make sure we'd got everything, we started to head up the beach.

"This was fun," he said, once we'd trekked over the pebbles and started climbing up the stairs back onto street level. "It's nice hanging out with you again. We should keep it up—you know, as long as you stick around in Walden."

"Yeah," I said, finding myself telling the truth. Because, however surprised I'd been to find Owen at my doorstep, the evening had been fun, and the atmosphere between us had turned out nothing like I'd imagined. Despite all the history, we could still feel at ease. "Definitely. And I'll give you notice before I make any getaway plans, so don't worry about that."

He chuckled. "Thanks. I'll need time to get used to the idea of you abandoning us all."

At the top of the stairs, we paused; this was the point where we were due to go our separate ways. His apartment was just up the street, while I had a considerably longer walk up the hill back to my place. The strange pang hit me again, as I realised this was where our new boundary lay. Had this been a date, he would've walked me back. But Katie and a basket of their combined laundry was waiting for him, while an empty room was doing the same for me.

"Well," I said. "I guess I'll see you at work."

"Yeah. Have a safe journey home."

"It's Walden," I pointed out. "Lowest crime rate in the country. I think I'll be okay."

He smiled. "That's true. You'll be okay, then. See you later."

My own goodbye followed, and then that was it: he'd turned and was heading in the opposite direction. Back to his apartment, his girlfriend, his adult life.

While I just felt like I was heading backwards.

---------------

Hi, everyone! Long time no chapter, huh? I'm sorry about that. Having a full time job is kind of kicking my butt. I'm trying to steal moments to write, but I feel like I need to nail down a routine and set aside some proper time.

I went to Brighton yesterday, which is one of my favourite places, and the weather is beautiful and it just really made me think of Walden and this little fictional place I've built up in my head. I think the sea air gave me some inspiration to finish this chapter.

What are your thoughts on Sydney and Owen's relationship? I'm intrigued to know! This is the first time I've written a love interest who's already in a stable, committed relationship so I'm really interested to know how you feel about the shipping. Is it wrong, or do you think they belong together? Let me know in the comments!

- Leigh