I took different routes. Ate at odd hours. Stayed in my room when I knew he'd be in shared spaces. It felt like holding my breath—sustainable for a while, painful the longer it went on.
Twice, I almost broke.
The first time was Tuesday afternoon. I was cutting through the athletic complex to avoid the quad, and I felt him before I saw him—that flare of warmth beneath my skin, the hum rising like a tide. He was on the climbing wall, thirty feet up, movingwith the easy confidence of someone who'd grown up physical. I stood in the shadow of the doorway and watched him for longer than I should have.
He didn't see me. I made sure of that.
The second time was Wednesday night. I'd gone to the library. James was in the stacks, looking for something, and I heard his voice before I turned the corner.
I set my book on a table and walked out the back entrance.
He never knew I was there.
I packed at 1 a.m.
The room was dark except for the glow of my phone screen, turned face-down on the desk to cast just enough light to see by. Ivy slept through it—she always slept through everything, a gift I'd envied since the first night we'd shared this room.
My hands moved without hesitation. I'd rehearsed this a hundred times in my head. Knew exactly what went where, how to distribute weight, what could be sacrificed if I needed to move fast.
Base layers first. Merino wool, the good kind Gregor had bought for my birthday two years ago. Then mid-layers—fleece, synthetic insulation, nothing cotton. Cotton kills. That was one of the first things he'd taught me.
Outer shell. Waterproof, windproof, the bright orange that search and rescue teams could spot from a helicopter. I didn't plan on needing rescue. But Gregor's voice was loud in my head:Plan for the worst. Hope means nothing on a mountain.
Sleeping system. The bag was rated to negative forty, compressed into a stuff sack. Larger than I liked, but worth theweight. Pad for insulation from the ground. Bivy for emergency shelter.
Food. Energy bars. Freeze-dried meals. Electrolyte packets. Enough for two weeks if I rationed carefully. Longer if I had to.
The gear I'd been collecting for weeks fit together like puzzle pieces. Thermal blanket from the First Aid closet. Waterproof matches from the outdoor equipment room. Paracord. Chemical heat packs. The small things that meant the difference between survival and statistics.
I worked in silence, each movement precise. My body knew what to do even when my mind was still catching up.
This was really happening.
I was really leaving.
The note for Ivy took longer than the packing.
I sat at my desk with a pen and a piece of paper torn from my notebook, staring at the blank page like it might fill itself if I waited long enough.
What do you say to someone who trusted you? Who let you into their space and their life and didn’t ask for anything except honesty?
I’m sorryfelt inadequate.I have to gofelt incomplete.There’s something I need to dowas true but explained nothing.
In the end, I wrote two notes.
The first one was easy.
Ivy—
I was up all night with a stomach bug and didn’t want to wake you. I’m exhausted and my head’s a mess, so I’m going to Rae’s healing center to get meds and sleep it off.
Don’t worry. Rae knows I’m coming and she’ll take care of me.
If you’re out after classes tonight, bring me a croissant? The good one, not the sad cafeteria kind.
—L
It was believable. Ordinary. The kind of note roommates left each other all the time.It would buy me hours. Maybe a full day.
