“Let’s not jinx it.”
Richard lets out a hearty laugh and shakes his head.
We pile into Grant’s car soon after, the engine rumbling to life once our limbs are tucked in and our doors shut.
I look back as we pull out of the driveway, through the rearview window and see Noelle’s standing on the porch with her arms wrapped around herself.
Next to her, Richard’s got his arm slung around her shoulders, pulling her against his side while waving at us.
She waves too in a small, wistful gesture, and I feel that ache again settling in my chest, sharp and insistent.
She looks smaller from this distance, framed by the doorway like a memory I already know I’ll replay too many times once I’m back under my own roof and tucked into a bed that feels far too cold.
I try to wave back, but the movement feels clumsy.
“Shit,” Dean mutters, shifting the car into drive while pulling out of the driveway.
The road stretches out ahead of us, the quiet town fading into the distance, but my mind’s still in that house, in her room, wrapped inside the warmth of her laughter and the heat of her touch.
We don’t talk about it.
We don’t need to.
It’s there in every shared glance, in every quiet breath, how we all feel about finally being forced to return back to reality.
I hope, one day, we can return again.
5
NOELLE
The nausea comes in waves.
Not the sharp, fleeting kind that makes you wince and move on but in slow, relentless tides that rise from somewhere deep inside and leave me clutching the edge of the sink, praying it’ll pass.
It’s either food poisoning, a stomach bug, or just nerves.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
But no matter what, deep down, I know this is different.
It’s a quiet unease that settles beneath my ribs and stays there, rolling in and out like a second heartbeat.
Morning, night, in the middle of class, halfway through brushing my teeth, it doesn’t care about timing.
It hits when it wants, and all I can do is grit my teeth and wait for the wave to crash and ebb again.
At first, I pretend it’s nothing.
Final’s stress, I tell myself. Too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Greasy mess hall food that’s finally catching up to me.
Maybe a flu that’s been circulating around the dorms.
It’s easy to invent reasons when you’re desperate not to face the real one. Easy to tell yourself stories that sound rational and manageable.Fixable.
Because stories are easier than admitting what your body already knows.
But as the weeks drag on, the excuses get harder to believe.
