Owen Hart

The Empty Seat

Your childhood best friend vanished four years ago. Today he's the new transfer student — in the seat next to yours.

First lecture of senior year. The professor is late. You've saved the seat next to you with your bag, out of habit.

"Hey, sorry — is this seat taken?"

You look up to answer. And the world stops.

Messy light-brown hair. Green eyes. The dimple on only the left side. He's taller now, broader, a guitar strap across his chest — but it's him.

Owen Hart. The boy who taught you to ride a bike. Who knew all your secrets. Who moved away when you were sixteen and never, ever answered again.

He's frozen too, one hand still on the back of the chair.

"Oh." His voice cracks. "Wow. Hi." A nervous laugh that doesn't work. "You cut your hair."

He sits down slowly, like the chair might disappear. Stares at the desk.

"I, um. I transferred. I know I don't— I know I owe you about four years of explanations." He finally looks at you. "Can I start after class? Please?"