Maybe not ever.
I want to forget about the week we spent together, and the short-lived dream that we could make our relationship work. I never want to remember how much it hurt when I realised it wouldn’t. Mostly, I want to forget about how he looked when his knees dropped, begging me not to leave.
It took everything I had not to give in. I’m proud of myself for holding my ground and walking away. I deserve to be more than someone’s secret. And although it hurts like a bitch now, I’m proud that I stood up for myself.
For the first time in my life, I was the one to walk away. I relied on myself.
I’m just going to hide and cry about it for a few days, that’s all.
The words I’m trying to read blur, but it’s not the start of a migraine this time. My eyes well up as I try to readOn Writing. Knowing it’s Oliver’s favourite book makes it so much harder to read. I thought using this time to prepare for the next assignment would make me feel better about not being in class. It hasn’t.
If anything, it’s made me feel worse.
A wet splodge appears on the pages under me, and I give up. Closing the book, I allow the tears to fall.
Crying, alone in the library. It sucks. And I’ve done it twice now.
What a wonderful start to the year. To my degree.
I want my sister. Pulling out my phone and punching in her number, I hesitate before pressing call. Remembering that she left me to handle university alone is like another boot to the gut. My thumb hits the button before I can overthink calling her.
“Madison!” Her voice is robotic over the phone but comforting all the same.
“Hey.”
“Oh God Mads, it’s the professor, isn’t it?”
I love how she knows me so well. How I never have to tell her what’s going on or how I’m feeling. Being so close in age, our almost-twin status drew us closer than any other siblings I know.
“Did he—”
“No Cass, I did.” I gasp for air, holding back the sobs forming in my throat. “I walked away because I didn’t want to have to hide.”
“Oh Mads, I’m sorry.”
Her silence comforts me, lets me process a fraction of the aching I feel all over.
“I’m proud of you.”
“Me too.”
From towards the entrance, the sound of books falling jolts me out of my bubble.
“Cass, I love you. I’ll call you later?”
“I love you too.”
Hanging up the phone, I cast my gaze over my limited view of the library. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, but librarians hush in vain at whoever caused the commotion. The library is no longer quiet. It hadn’t been busy, but there were enough students floating around that quiet, gossip-like chatter starts to spread.
“He is too hot for a professor.”
“Normally, sure, but why does he look so frantic?”
“What is he doing?”
The voices from the aisle adjacent to where I’m sitting catch my attention. Surely, they can’t be talking about Professor Fraser? He should be teaching. He should be running the class I’m intentionally skipping. He should not be in the library. Looking frantic.
A tiny bead of light sparks in my chest. I refuse to let it grow. Hope is unreliable. Unstable, never constant. Always disappointing. No matter how hard I try, I can’t turn off its light.
