I whisper a single apology into the cool night air, “Forgive me. I need to do this.”
And then, with the weight of every choice that led me here pressing down on my shoulders, I step through.
CHAPTER 3
BRIAR
The world knits itself back together around me in a rush of color and noise, no trace of the portal to be seen. The cool night air slams into my lungs, crisp and sharp, much cooler than the general year-round warmth in Sanguis. My boots scuff against pavement that’s slick with a thin sheen of rain, the lingering moisture glittering under the hard, white glare of streetlamps.
Neon bleeds into puddles, fractured into shards of pink, green, and gold on the wet asphalt. Car horns blare somewhere down the block, impatient and unrelenting, and a deep bass from a club across the street vibrates through my feet and up into my ribs.
The air is thick with scents that collide strangely. Car exhausts and roasting chestnuts, fried dough and the faint sweetness of something floral I can’t place. It’s nothing like the lavender scents in all of the castle baths and the musky scent of the stone walls.
People stream past me on either side suddenly, wrapped up in their own conversations. No one even looks twice at me.
For the first time in my life, I’m just another face in the crowd.
For a beat I don’t move. I just stand there and let the city pour through me. The noise, the light, and my newfound anonymity soak into it. The relief is so sharp it’s almost painful.
I did it. I actually left Sanguis.
A laugh slips out, small, yet full of incredulous wonder. I look up and around like I could memorize this exact angle of neon and brick and sky, the way steam drifts from a grate and dissolves into the night sky.
New York.
I say it in my head the way I imagine people say their lovers' names–full of warmth and appreciation.
Movement catches at the edge of my vision. A purple banner tugged around by wind near a stretch of a stone wall a block away.NYUin stark, white letters. The sight knocks the air from my lungs more effectively than the sounds and smell of the city.
My future. It's a simple sign swinging over a campus I have stared at in photos a hundred times and never touched.
My feet start before my brain catches up, clouded with awe. I fall into the current of pedestrians and let it carry me toward the arching trees and wrought-iron fencing. A girl with a nose ring shoulders past me with an easy “sorry.”
“No problem,” I murmur, but she’s already dissolved into the crowd, not giving me a moment more of her time.
A knot inside me loosens further at the feeling of this freedom unfurling within my chest.
I pass a brick building with carved stone steps. Fliers layer the bulletin boards near the path and I quickly scan them: student film auditions, a poetry slam, a dance crew seeking new members. The paper edges lift and flap, whispering to me like a quiet promise of new experiences and I can’t push down my growing smile.
The air is different here on campus. The world feels heavier and simpler all at once.
This is what I wanted. The ordinary miracle of it.
I quickly follow signs the way I’d trace on a map with a fingertip.Admissions →. Each arrow clicks my heart forward. My boots squeak faintly on damp stone. Somewhere a siren whines and keeps going, red light smearing along the edges of a building like sprayed paint. I inhale the scent of wet leaves and the faint sweetness of rain on warm pavement. I quickly imagine walking here every day with ink smudged on my fingers, a sketchbook heavy in my bag, and classes that end with the shock of inspiration bubbling within me.
The Office of Undergraduate Admissions sits at the end of a short path, a dignified rectangle of limestone and glass with a narrow set of steps leading up to double doors. One light burns inside, a square of yellow braced against the night. Hope flares as I quickly run up the stairs, ready to start this new life I easily envision now that I’m here.
Yet the door doesn’t budge when I pull. I blink, trying the other handle as if that’s the trick, but metal bites my palm as I continue to pull harder. I try both handles three more times until I finally let myself admit that the building is locked.
“Okay,” I murmur to myself, refusing to feed the rising panic flaring within me. “It’s fine.”
I lean in to read the small placard by the handle.Hours: Monday–Friday, 9:00 AM–5:00 PM. It’s a clean font, kind and absolute, yet I still struggle to accept that. The glass is cold under my hands as I peer through, desperate to find any sign of life. The lobby inside glows faintly from the two soft lights illuminating it, showing off the neat room with chairs angled just so atop a large carpet with the school emblem on it. There’s a potted plant on a tall desk, with a stack of papers fanned into a flower in the middle of the counter.
Beyond that, the building is swallowed in darkness, and a sigh slips out of me as I pull back. A cluster of papers is tapedto the inside of the other locked door, so I angle my head and squint through reflections until the bold header is legible.
APPLICATION DEADLINES. My gaze drops to the line that matters.Fall Term: June 15.
June 15.
