I followed her out into the hallway, my shoes clicking lightly against the polished floors. Outside, the winter sunlight had begun to lower, casting the playground in long, soft shadows. Children’s voices from a neighboring after-school program drifted faintly through the open windows, a cheerful counterpoint to the knot of feelings in my chest.
“They finished the playground a couple of weeks ago,” Mrs. Alcott said, walking beside me. “Slides, climbing structures, and a small garden area. You’ll have your hands full, but it’s all designed for small groups so you can focus on meaningful activities.”
Meaningful. Every word seemed to echo inside me as I followed her past the lockers and the coat cubbies, past the small indoor garden area where sunlight caught the leaves in bright patches. I could almost feel the hands of my other students, the warmth of little arms threading through mine, the giggles and whispers of “teacher, look!” and “teacher, watch me!”
And yet, the thought of it—the carefully ordered, perfectly planned, entirely predictable life—felt almost suffocating. My fingers itched for something messier, something real, something that made my heart skip forward without a neat path laid out.
Mrs. Alcott led me down the final hallway, past generic paintings toward her office. “We just need signatures and a quick review of the handbook,” she said. “Then you can start planning your first week.”
My mind wasn’t on forms or policies or class start dates. It was on the brownstone, on the laughter, on the chaotic warmth of a life I hadn’t known I wanted until I’d lived it. I could feel it tugging at me, an invisible thread, and for the first time, I wondered if getting back on my original path would be enough. Or if it had ever really been enough at all.
“Let’s take this shortcut.” Mrs. Alcott led me into a courtyard that served as a center atrium to the whole school.
The crispness of the late afternoon brushed against my cheeks. Long shadows stretched across the courtyard, a quiet, measured calm that only made the dissonance inside me feel louder. I should have been excited, ready to claim the next chapter of my life so I could forget all the shitty stuff from the last one. But all I could feel was the pull of the unexpected comfort that had woven itself into my days in Back Bay.
And just like that, the certainty I’d carried into the school dissolved, leaving me standing between the promise of what I thought I wanted and the reality I was beginning to crave.
Each step toward the principal’s office made my chest tighten. I knew what awaited me there—a desk, a chair, a folder, a pen. A neatly packaged future.
Mrs. Alcott opened the door before I could reach it, her smile warm but expectant. “Ready to make it official?”
I followed her inside, the office smaller than I’d pictured, cozy in a way that should have been comforting. Everything about it whispered stability, order, and certainty. The contract lay there, waiting for my signature. I was sweating despite the chill.
I sat in the chair across from Mrs. Alcott, my hands clenching in my lap before resting lightly on the arms of the chair. Twelve students. Small numbers. A chance to connect, to teach, to reclaim the trajectory I had once envisioned. In a new school that was perfect in every way. All of it should have made me feel at home.
But it didn’t.
Mrs. Alcott spoke softly, filling in details about supplies, the curriculum, and the schedule. Her words were practical, comforting, exactly what I expected. And yet, with each sentence, I felt a growing unrest inside me. My mind kept drifting, intruding where it shouldn’t. Ethan, Miles, Adrian, the way the kids had opened themselves to me, the mess, the noise, the wild moments of unplanned joy. How was I supposed to ignore all of that?
I glanced down at the contract. My name printed neatly at the top, the future I had fought for, planned for, dreamed of. I could sign it. I should sign it. The world I had known, the path I had been so determined to reclaim, waited for me right there. But my heart didn’t move toward it. My heart wasn’t anywhere near this place. A wave of realization hit me: this life I’d been chasing for so long—the one I thought I wanted—wasn’t mine anymore.
I closed my eyes for a moment, the office fading around me. I saw the brownstone, the mess and the laughter, the tiny hands reaching for snacks, the soft warmth of a quiet moment with the kids, and the way Ethan’s gaze lingered too long, or Miles’ grin was too knowing, or Adrian’s teasing was layered with something that always got me going.
A part of me, the part that had lived by plans and timetables, screamed that I was abandoning my shot, that I was being reckless. But another part—the part that had been quietly stirring for weeks, the part that had leaned into chaosand unpredictability and found joy there—pulled me toward a different kind of certainty.
I stood abruptly, and Mrs. Alcott looked up, startled. “Maren?”
“I can’t do this.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked quickly down the hallway, out into the crisp afternoon air. The doors swung closed behind me, muffling the quiet urgency of the office, leaving me alone on the sidewalk to consider what I’d just done. I paused and looked back at the school, the sun catching the windows, the neat playground, the banners flapping lightly in the breeze. A life I thought I wanted, all neatly arranged and waiting for me to take it.
A cab pulled up just then, and I slid into the backseat without thinking. The driver turned to me, eyebrows raised. “Where to?”
I hesitated, watching the school shrink in the rearview mirror. My breath caught. I’d been pushed out of a life of stability and predictability against my will. This whole time I thought I’d be better once I found my way back to exactly what I lost. But I’d been wrong.
A slow smile tugged at my lips. “Lumen Events offices. Seaport,” I said finally, voice firm. My hand rested lightly on the door handle as the cab pulled away, the city stretching out before me, uncertain and wide open. And for the first time in weeks, maybe in years, I felt the full, exhilarating weight of making my own choice.
I practically skidded into the Lumen Events conference room, heart hammering like I’d just crossed some invisible finish line. Miles and Adrian looked up from the sketches sprawled across the table, eyebrows lifted, the same synchronized question in their eyes:What just happened?
My walls, all the careful control I’d tried to hold onto, crumbled in that instant. Nothing else mattered. Not the contract I’d almost signed, not the life I thought I was supposed to want. Just them, right here, right now, and the impossible pull I’d finally decided to surrender to.
19
Miles
“Everything okay?” I asked when she appeared in the doorway. No knock, no warning. “Something happen with the kids?”
It came out half-concern, half-surprise, because the last I’d heard from Ethan, Maren was gone. Off to some new teaching job. A clean break, he’d said. And yet here she was, flushed, breathing hard, eyes flicking between me and Adrian like she was deciding whether to say something ordosomething.
