Work Text:
Lydia hates taking the bus, but it’s easier than driving in the early-morning traffic and much easier than taking her bike. She tucks her pink messenger bag closer to her side and holds tightly onto the support bar.
Her thesis is nearly finished—she just needs a few more hours at the library and some editing from the professor and she’s good to go. She’s glad to have the distraction, since Scott keeps calling and asking when she’s coming home for a visit and Mr. Argent keeps sending her e-mails with pictures of France. She ignores them with a lump in her throat.
A hand falls on her own on the bar before quickly moving away, and when Lydia looks up, her blood runs cold and her mouth falls open in a short gasp. There’s a girl there, brown hair with caramel streaks, cheeks flushed pink and sheepish, and Lydia whispers Allison before she can help herself. She wishes for the heat of the girl’s hand again, the soft brush of skin on skin.
But the girl furrows her brow and Lydia realizes it’s not Allison—Allison is (was) short and thinner and her smile is (was) more radiant, her eyes brighter.
“Sorry,” Lydia murmurs, and looks down at the grubby floor, fighting tears.
It’s never Allison, and it never will be.