I envy them.
I drop my keys on the counter, loosen my tie, and sink onto the white leather couch. The silence presses in again.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the coffee table.
My gaze lands on the small paperback journal she gave me.
I told myself I wasn’t doing this. I’m not a “write your feelings down” guy. I’m not a “share a happy memory” guy either.
But I did.
And instead of feeling wrecked, I feel… calmer.
That’s the part I can’t shake.
Because I didn’t expect relief, I expected backlash.
I expected my brain to punish me for remembering something good.
It didn’t.
Which means Dr. Pembrooke wasn’t just filling the room with pretty words. Her little exercise actually moved something. Shifted the weight, even if only by a fraction.
I don’t know what to do with that.
But I know what happens when I do nothing.
So—
I pick up the journal.
The cover is smooth, the pages crisp and empty. There’s something almost intimidating about that kind of emptiness.
I flip it open, holding the pen for a long time before pressing it to the page.
No plan. No outline. Just a quiet, restless need to start somewhere.
And as the ink bleeds into paper, I let the words take me back.
Skipping school had sounded rebellious this morning, sneaking away after second period, climbing the rust-flaked bleachers with Maddison and a grocery-bag picnic. Now the sun was sliding west, and Maddison sat cross-legged beside me, chewing her lower lip until it went white.
“Oh no,” she murmured, flipping through her beat-up planner. “Nooooo.”
“What’s wrong?” I nudged her sneaker with mine.
She swallowed. “My AP-Lit term paper… it was supposed to be in today—on Mrs. Keene’s desk before the bell. I forgot.” Her voice cracked. “It’s worth forty percent of my grade. If I fail that class…” She exhaled shakily. “My dad will ground me for the entire summer. He’s already on edge after the other night.”
I knew the type: Mr. Morgan, the high-powered lawyer who still treated his daughter’s life like a closing argument. No leeway. No excuses. No Nathan Reign. And he already hated me for taking his baby girl’s time.
“We’re not going to let that happen,” I promised. “I’ll break into your school tonight and turn it in myself.”
Minutes later, my car idled under a busted lamp, engine ticking nervously. Maddison leaned across the console, drawing a rough floor plan on a pink Post-it note.
“Mrs. Keene’s classroom is on the second floor, south wing. Stairs are here. She keeps the paper tray on the corner of her desk. Label says, ‘Final Projects.’” She handed me a manila folder with Maddison Morgan written in neat script.
I kissed her cheek. “Be right back.”
The back gym door was rusted but loose, just like she’d said. One shove, and it gave way with a groan. I slipped inside, heart already hammering.
