I nod, mechanical. My mind races through implications. Through nights poured over sketches that will now be tucked away, unseen.
“I’ll need the feedback,” I say. Firm. Demanding. I refuse to let this end without knowing where I was deemed insufficient.
“Feedback will be sent in due time,” they reply, already shifting focus like I’m a completed task.
The call ends.
The quiet afterward is worse than the no. It’s the part where the world expects me to swallow it privately and keep walking like nothing happened.
I remove the headset. Stand. Push the chair back until it bumps the cubicle wall with a dull, unforgiving sound. My pulse keeps sprinting, then recalibrates—my body deciding what it can afford to feel and what it has to do instead.
I step out of the station row and back into the hallway.
The Aldridge plaque is still there. Of course it is. The kind of backing carved into walls never has to earn itself twice.
I’m halfway to the exit when voices slip through a door left slightly open. Just ajar enough to leak.
Soft. Confident. Careless.
“—strong fit—she has the right support,” someone says, like they’re discussing fabric weight.
Support.
My steps stop without asking permission. I don’t move closer like I’m sneaking. I drift, like I belong here. Like I’m not a student with fresh rejection bleeding behind my ribs. Like I’m inevitable.
Through the crack, I catch fragments—an administrator’s voice, another murmuring approval. Paper shuffling. A laugh that doesn’t bother hiding itself.
“Industry exposure,” someone adds. Casual. Like the weather.
I stare at the Aldridge plaque across the hall and feel something inside me go very still. Grief can wait. Collapse can wait. A boundary just drew itself.
“Her father is a major donor,” the voice continues, lower now, but not low enough. “We want to keep those connections sweet.”
My jaw locks. My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms—proof I’m still here. Still solid. Still mine.
I knew.
It’s that they said it out loud like it was normal. Like merit is a cute story you tell students to keep them working while real decisions get made elsewhere.
I turn away before the door opens and catches me standing there with murder in my eyes.
My phone buzzes again.
Clara: ???
Maya: Say the word.
Genny: Zoë.
Talia: I’m here.
I don’t answer. Breath stays sharp. My face settles. Anger gets packed into something useful.
I push through the glass doors and step into the cold air outside.
And he’s there.
Gio Rossi, leaning against the brick like he owns the space between the entrance and my exit. Hoodie. Sweats. Hands in his pockets. Too relaxed for someone who hits like a weapon for a living. His hair is still damp at the edges, like he showered fast and didn’t care how it dried. His posture tries for casual.
