June

Every evening, just after the sun dipped behind the trees and turned the lake turned the colour of copper, Liam sat at the edge of the dock, his toes skimming calm waters. The wood beneath him creaked like it resented his presence—or maybe it just shared his yearning. Across the lake stood the house. That same house with peeling purple porch railings, chipped off-white trim, and a cracked, red bricked chimney that somehow was still standing at the impossible angle it was.

Every night, at least before it all went down, the lights would flicker on, like someone inside still remembered what it meant to be alive. Liam hadn’t planned to care. Not really. He was only supposed to be at the cottage—his dead grandmother’s—for a little while. A summer reset. Space from the city. Room to breathe after everything in his life caved in like wet plaster.

Then he saw her.

It started innocently enough. He was walking back from the gas station, arms full of firewood and marshmallows, when he noticed the girl painting the porch. Bright, ridiculous purple. She was barefoot, smudged with paint, her hair tied back and streaked with color. She looked like summer itself—messy, stubborn, alive. She hadn’t seen him watching.

Liam told himself that he didn't care. But that would be a lie. The next night, he went to the dock again. Told himself it was about the breeze, or the peace. But really? He was waiting. Watching. When the lights came on—those fairy lights strung above the porch like fallen stars. He stayed. Then came the moment he saw her dancing. No music. No audience. Just her, moving like the world didn’t matter. Like she either didn’t care who was watching, or maybe she hoped someone was.

She never looked across the lake. Never noticed him. Liam tried to convince himself it was just a phase. A dumb, lonely crush on a girl he’d never met. Probably just liked the idea of her more than the real thing. But every night, when the sky turned that soft, bruised purple, he found himself back on the dock. Drawn to her.

He learned her rhythms. When the porch light would flick on—7:16 PM, exactly. When she came out barefoot with a steaming mug. How she’d hum, soft enough that, if the wind was right, the sound would reach him. He even gave her a name in his head: June. Not because it was June when he first saw her, but because she felt like June, warm, untamed, golden.

Then came the night she screamed.

Liam was already sitting at the dock when he heard it—a raw, sharp scream. Not of pain, but of something breaking inside. He jumped up, heart pounding. Saw her stumble out of the house, hands trembling around something—maybe a phone, maybe a letter. She collapsed on the porch steps, bent over like the world had punched her in the stomach. He stood frozen. Wanting to run to her. Do something. But he didn’t. He just watched. Like a coward.

She eventually went inside. That night, the porch light stayed off. And it stayed off the night after. And the one after that. For a week, the house stayed dark. Still, Liam returned to the dock every night, sitting there like a statue, as if his stillness could bring her back. But the windows remained empty. No music. No humming. Just silence.

He started to wonder if he’d imagined her. Maybe there was no girl. No dancing. Just a lonely hallucination brewed out of silence and lonliness. But then—light. Just a flicker at first. A lamp in the front room. Then the fairy lights. Then her.

She stepped out onto the porch wrapped in a thick jumper, a purple mug in hand. Her eyes looked tired, but she was there. Alive. That night, for the first time, Liam waved. It was awkward and impulsive—he raised his hand halfway, then immediately regretted it. He wasn’t trying to be some creepy neighbor lurking across the lake. But… he kind of was.

She paused.

Then, a miracle of miracles—she waved back. And smiled. It was small and crooked. He didn’t sleep that night.

Over the next few nights, she started waving first. Sometimes she danced again—slower now, gentler, like someone still healing. Liam thought about rowing across the lake, introducing himself. But the idea felt delicate. Like if he moved too fast, the whole thing would vanish.

Instead, he bought binoculars.

The first time he mimed using them, she laughed and cupped her hands like a megaphone to yell, “Creep!” across the water. He shouted back, “You paint like a drunk raccoon!” And just like that, a strange, long-distance friendship was born.

They didn’t know each other’s names. Never got close enough to touch. But Liam told jokes from across the water. She held up her drawings. Sometimes she sang—loud, off-key, and gloriously unashamed. She even started writing on giant pieces of cardboard. Once, she held up: “WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE PLANET?” Liam scribbled his answer on a whiteboard: “PROBABLY PLUTO. NOT A PLANET BUT STILL TRYING.” She laughed so hard she fell out of her chair.

He didn’t just want her. Not in the shallow way. He wanted this. Whatever this strange, spark-filled thing between them was.

Then came the shouting. Not from her house—his side. One morning, he woke to voices. That night, her porch was empty. The next morning, a white moving truck arrived.

He ran to the dock, helpless, as movers carried away her paintings, unscrewed the creaky porch swing, and balled up the fairy lights like they were trash. She was leaving. And he had never even met her.

Panic hit. He ran back to the cottage, rummaging through drawers until he found a little paper boat he’d folded weeks ago. Inside was a note: If you ever need a friend, I’m always on the dock. He never planned to use it. But now? He sprinted to the lake, dropped it in, praying the wind would carry it.

It didn’t. It sank halfway.

When he returned to the dock, the house was already dark.

She was gone.

Weeks passed. Still, Liam came to the dock. Still stared across the lake at the now-empty house. No lights, no dancing, no June. He didn’t feel gutted because he’d lost her. He felt hollow because he never really had her. And that’s the worst kind of loss—the kind that doesn’t get closure. The kind you can’t mourn properly. The kind that never held your hand, never kissed you, but still carved itself deep into your ribs.

Then came the letter.

Taped to the door of his grandmother’s cottage. Scrawled handwriting, barely legible.

“To the boy with Pluto dreams —

I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.

I didn’t even know how.

But your little boat? I saw it.

I saved the soggy mess and stuck it in my sketchbook.

Maybe one day, we’ll meet on the same side of the lake.

— June (yes, that’s my real name)”

Liam laughed. Then cried. Then read it again. And again.

He still visits the lake. Every summer.

The house across the water is still there, but new owners never stay long. He doesn’t sit there to watch anymore. He goes to remember. To hope.

Because maybe, somewhere, June is dancing barefoot in a new place, sipping tea in her purple cup, painting another porch an even brighter shade of rebellion.

And maybe—just maybe—one day, she’ll see him again.