Small Rebellions

Once Upon a Time…

Once upon a time… I thought I had life figured out. Not the big, existential kind—just the small stuff. Lunchboxes, grade reports, color-coded planners, saying “thank you” even when you didn’t mean it. I was the girl who triple-checked permission slips, kept a spare pencil in every pocket, and made mental lists of everyone else’s mistakes so I could avoid them. I thought that was enough to survive.

And then there was Ezra Quinn.

He showed up in third-period history like he had wandered in from a different planet—or maybe a planet where rules didn’t exist, and that somehow made everything else feel smaller. Messy hair that stuck up in all the wrong directions, a leather jacket that smelled like smoke and adventure, and eyes that looked straight through your carefully constructed life. I noticed him immediately, the way you notice a crack in the sidewalk: you almost trip before you realize it’s there, and then you can’t stop looking at it.

I wanted to hate him on principle. First day, he kicked his feet onto the desk in front of him, leaned back, and smirked at the ceiling. I almost snorted judgmentally, and then he caught me staring.

“You’re staring,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are. It’s fine.”

I hated that he didn’t care.

Small school, big gossip. Ezra’s reputation arrived before he did: skipping class, fights in the parking lot, teachers giving him the side-eye, whispers trailing behind him like smoke. And yet… he didn’t raise his voice at anyone, didn’t steal, didn’t cheat. He just existed in a way that made the world feel slightly unsteady, like someone had nudged the floor beneath you and you were tilting, just a little.

I kept watching him. Maybe a little creepy. Okay, definitely a little creepy.

Our first real conversation was an accident. I dropped my books near his locker—probably on purpose, though I’d never admit it.

“You drop things a lot,” he said one day, picking up my history textbook.

“I’m careful.”

“You’re not,” he replied. It stung and… felt good at the same time.

He flipped my textbook open and frowned. “Highlighting everything in yellow. Trying to make the past look cheerful?”

I snatched it back. My face burned. He just leaned against the lockers like he had nowhere better to be while the world rushed past.

⸻

The library became our unofficial meeting place. He sat in the corner by the window, legs stretched out like he owned gravity, a blank notebook open in front of him. I’d sit across from him pretending to study, though we both knew we weren’t there for books.

“You ever feel like people expect you to play a part?” he asked one afternoon.

“I try not to think about it.”

“Everyone’s acting. It’s exhausting.”

I blinked at him. He didn’t care about appearances, didn’t ask permission to be who he was. I hated him for that, and admired him, and wanted him all at the same time.

He slid the notebook toward me. “Draw something.”

“I don’t draw.”

“That’s why.”

I hesitated, pencil hovering over the page. Then I drew a crooked little house, too many windows, a fence that leaned, flowers that didn’t match. It wasn’t perfect.

“Looks lonely,” he said.

“It’s organized.”

He shrugged, like that explained everything.

⸻

We fell into a rhythm of irregularity. He’d show up some days, skip others. I noticed every absence like a bruise. We joked, we argued, we laughed at things that weren’t even funny.

Once, someone spilled their lunch tray in the cafeteria—a wave of tomato soup flooding the linoleum. Ezra just watched. “Epic tragedy,” he whispered. I almost choked on my sandwich laughing. The guy who spilled the tray glared. Ezra didn’t care. He just winked at me.

“I think we’re going to get along,” he said.

Another time, the fire alarm went off. Everyone poured into the parking lot. Ezra leaned toward me. “If this were a real fire, we’d all be toast. Literally.”

I laughed so hard I had to pretend it was a cough.

⸻

He was mysterious, too. Sometimes, I’d ask what he was thinking. “Nothing important,” he’d say, which was always a lie, and I liked that he lied that way—like it was his secret to keep, not a puzzle for me to solve.

One rainy afternoon, we walked home together without umbrellas. Water plastered his jacket to his chest, dripped down his hair. I was fuming at the cold, he wasn’t bothered.

“Where do you go when you skip class?” I asked.

“Places,” he said.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got right now.”

I stopped, my shoes squelching in puddles. He stopped. We walked in silence, each step splashing water over our ankles.

“You ever think about leaving?” he asked.

“This town? All the time.”

“No. Leaving who you’re supposed to be.”

I swallowed. “I don’t know how.”

“Start small,” he said. “Like walking in the rain without complaining.”

I laughed, a real laugh, the kind that rattles your chest.

⸻

We didn’t need each other. We didn’t need to fix each other. But being around him made life bigger, messier, brighter.

The first time we were caught outside after dark, I thought we were doomed. We’d snuck onto the roof of the old gym because he claimed it had the best view of the stars. Crisp autumn air, Milky Way spilling across the sky.

We lay on our backs, side by side, not touching.

“See that one?” he pointed. “Orion’s belt. Supposed to guide hunters.”

“You hunt?”

“Nah. But I like the idea of something up there pointing the way, even if you’re lost.”

I turned my head to look at him. His profile, sharp against the stars. I wondered, briefly, about kissing him—not for drama, just… quietly, like everything else between us.

The janitor’s flashlight beam caught us.

“You kids okay up here?”

“Yes, sir,” Ezra said calmly.

I was ready to apologize for everything. He just smiled. Complicit in a joke only we understood.

⸻

Senior year came with the usual chaos: college apps, deadlines, polite panic. Ezra didn’t apply anywhere. He worked odd jobs—garage, mowing lawns, helping neighbors. He never spoke of the future like it was a finish line.

One spring evening, we sat on the bleachers after a track meet. The field empty, lights buzzing above.

“You’re going to leave,” he said. Not a question.

“Probably.”

He nodded. “Good.”

“That’s it?”

“You’re meant for bigger checklists,” he teased, eyes serious.

“And you?”

“I’m not meant for any.”

I wanted to argue, but something about the way he said it stopped me. He was content in his chaos. I had to be content in mine.

⸻

Ezra stayed long enough for me to understand him, long enough to realize I didn’t need to be perfect. No dramatic fights, no cinematic confessions. Just afternoons stolen from ordinary life, quiet smiles, whispered jokes, small rebellions.

Then, one Tuesday, he left. No warning, no farewell, just gone. Library spot empty, locker cleared. Rumors: west, north, anywhere but here.

I didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. Didn’t care the way a small town expects. I was fine. Mostly.

⸻

Years later, I saw him in a coffee shop. Different city, different life. Laptop open, avoiding work, when a familiar low laugh floated across the room. Same sideways grin, messy hair threaded with gray. Reading a paper newspaper. Time hadn’t touched him in the same way.

Our eyes met. Recognition, no surprise.

He came over. “Still dropping things?”

“Only occasionally.”

We talked over coffee, laughed about absurd memories—the cafeteria disaster, rooftop stars, rain walks. No one needed saving, no one needed fixing. We existed in the same space, seventeen years later.

I didn’t need him to complete me. He didn’t need me to fill a void. We mattered to each other once. That was enough.

⸻

Once upon a time… I thought life had to be neat to make sense. Now I know better. Some stories aren’t about forever—they’re about noticing, experiencing, and walking away intact. And sometimes, years later, you bump into them and realize the shape they left in you is still there, soft around the edges, but permanent.