Principal Martinez's handshake was firm, his congratulations genuine but forgettable. The diploma felt surreal in my hands, all that work and stress and late-night cramming sessions reduced to expensive paper and embossedlettering. I should have been savoring the moment, should have been drinking in the applause and the pride on my parents' faces.
Instead, I found myself looking back at Evan, trying to memorize the way the afternoon light caught in his dark hair, the serious expression that made him look older than eighteen. He wasn't smiling, wasn't cheering like everyone else. Just watching me with those hazel eyes that seemed to see straight through whatever facade I was trying to maintain.
Like he knew exactly what this diploma meant. Like he understood that I was already halfway gone.
The ceremony dragged on, names called in alphabetical order while families cheered and cameras flashed. When they finally announced Evan's name, I clapped so hard my palms stung, watching him cross the stage with that careful grace that reminded me he was more than just human, even if I didn't fully understand what that meant.
He didn't look for me in the crowd. Didn't seek out my approval or my pride. Just accepted his diploma with quiet dignity and returned to his seat, shoulders set against whatever weight he carried that the rest of us couldn't see.
When the last name was called and caps went flying, I felt the bitter tang of endings on my tongue. Three years of this place, these people, this strange small town that had somehow become home despite my best efforts to stay detached.
Three years of Evan Callahan, who'd become the center of my world so gradually I hadn't noticed until it was too late to protect myself from the inevitable heartbreak of leaving him behind.
The Moonbeam Cafébuzzed with post-graduation energy, families crowding around tables laden with pie and coffee while graduates caught up with classmates they'd probably never see again. I claimed our usual booth by the window, the one Martha had started calling “the boys' table.”
Mom and Dad slid in across from me, still glowing with parental pride, while Evan folded his considerable frame into the space beside me. The booth had been cramped when we were fifteen and awkward. Now, with Evan's shoulders brushing mine and his legs too long for the space, it felt intimate in ways that made my skin buzz with awareness.
“I got into Chicago.”
The words tumbled out before I could stop them, cutting through Mom's party planning with the weight of announcement. I hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, hadn't planned on making it sound like breaking news instead of the culmination of months of careful planning and application essays.
But there it was, hanging in the air between us like a bridge I couldn't uncross.
Mom's face lit up like Christmas morning. “Oh, Nate! That's wonderful! Full scholarship?”
“Full ride,” I confirmed, trying to match her enthusiasm even though my chest felt tight. “Photography program. It's exactly what I wanted.”
Dad reached across the table to squeeze my shoulder, his pride evident in the firm grip. “That's my boy. Knew you had it in you.”
The warmth of their approval should have been enough. Should have filled up all the empty spaces and made this moment feel like the victory it was supposed to be. Instead, I found myself hyperaware of Evan's silence beside me, the carefulway he was cutting his pie into precise squares without actually eating any of it.
“What about you, Evan?” Mom asked, turning her attention to him. “Any college plans?”
Evan's fork stilled against his plate. For a moment, I thought he might not answer at all, might retreat into the notebook communication that still served as his default when conversations got too complicated.
Then, quietly: “Community college. Here.”
Two words that hit me like a punch to the gut.
“Playing it safe, huh?” I said, going for teasing but landing somewhere closer to accusation. “Thought you might want to see what's out there beyond Hollow Pines.”
Evan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Someone needs to stay.”
He was staying and I was going, and the distance between Chicago and Hollow Pines had never felt more insurmountable.
“Community college is a smart choice,” Dad said, either oblivious to the undercurrents or choosing to ignore them. “Get your prerequisites out of the way without the debt. You can always transfer later.”
But we all knew he wouldn't. Evan was rooted in this place. He belonged here in ways I never could, never would.
And I belonged out there, in cities and galleries and places where my camera could capture stories worth telling.
The knowledge should have been comforting. Should have made the choice easier, cleaner, less like tearing myself in half.
Instead, it just made everything hurt worse.
The conversation drifted after that, Mom chattering about dorm room essentials while Dad grilled Evan about his summer job at the tavern. I contributed when appropriate, laughed at the right moments, played the part of the excited graduate heading off to bigger and better things.
But underneath it all, I was memorizing details. The way Evan's sleeves were rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and scattered with scars I'd never asked about. The careful precision with which he answered Dad's questions, speaking in full sentences now like the words were gifts he was choosing to give. The way the afternoon light streaming through the café windows caught the gold flecks in his hazel eyes.
