Chapter 50 #2
“Wonderful.” Professor Silvermoon’s eyes linger on me for a moment longer before she continues. “The musicians have confirmed. They’ll arrive early in the evening to set up. And the decorations all need to be in place no later than six, before the guests start to arrive.”
I force myself to write as Professor Silvermoon talks through the final details, scratching notes across the page in shaky handwriting.
Floating candles. Like the ones on Samhain, when Aric and I danced by the bonfire before slipping away into the Whim.
Enchanted snow. Like the snow falling outside the frosty window right now, the snow that covered the courtyard where I saw him with Morgan.
Everything is a reminder. Everything circles back to him.
Professor Silvermoon is quiet for a moment, and when I glance up from my notes, she’s watching me with an expression that’s far too knowing.
“Poppy,” she says gently, “you don’t have to pretend with me.”
I straighten. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say, but my voice wavers, giving me away—not that Professor Silvermoon would’ve been convinced anyway.
“Yes, you do.” She leans back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “Something’s troubling you. Has been for days now. And while I respect your privacy, I’m concerned about you.”
The tears I’ve been fighting since the moment I woke up this morning threaten to spill over again. I press my lips together, trying to hold them back, but it’s useless. “It’s nothing. I’m just . . . stressed about finals.”
Professor Silvermoon arches a pale eyebrow, her lips pursing as she regards me. “Are you sure that’s what’s bothering you? I’ve never known you to get stressed about finals.”
Of course it’s not finals. It’s the fact that I spent an entire semester helping to plan this beautiful, romantic ball and now I won’t have anyone to dance with.
It’s that every detail we’re discussing reminds me of Aric—of our trip to Faunwood, of how he asked me to the ball with that golden leaf in the cookie shop’s back garden, down on his knee like I was someone worth kneeling for.
It’s that I can still feel the ghost of his hand in mine, can still hear the way his voice broke when he said he was terrified of losing me—right before he decided to lose me anyway.
It’s that I wake up every morning and for just a moment, I forget. And then I remember, and it’s like losing him all over again.
“I-I . . .” My voice comes out small and trembling, barely more than a whisper. “Aric and I . . . We’re not together anymore.”
Professor Silvermoon’s expression shifts, her brows pulling together, her lips tilting down at the corners. “Oh, Poppy. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, even as tears start to slip down my cheeks.
“It was just . . . It wasn’t working. With finals and everything, we just .
. .” I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t even explain to myself how we fell apart without meaning to, how we both wanted it to work but didn’t know how to bridge the gap that had grown between us.
“That must be very difficult,” she says quietly, but there’s no pity in her voice, just gentle understanding.
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Professor Silvermoon hands me a handkerchief from her desk drawer—soft linen that smells faintly of lavender.
“Are you still planning to attend the ball?” she asks.
The question hits me like a physical blow. I hadn’t even thought about not going. But now that she’s asked, the idea of showing up alone, of watching everyone else dance while I stand against the wall remembering what I’ve lost . . .
“I have to,” I say, wiping at my eyes as fresh tears fall. “I helped plan it. I can’t just . . . not show up.”
“No one would blame you for taking care of yourself,” Professor Silvermoon says. “If attending would be too painful—”
“No.” I straighten my shoulders, trying to summon some semblance of strength even though I feel like I’m made of fractured glass. “No, I want to go. I need to go. I’ve worked too hard on this to miss it.”
Even if it breaks my heart. Even if seeing that ballroom—the one I’ve been dreaming about, the one where Aric was supposed to take me by the hand and make me feel like the most special witch in the room—tears me apart.
Professor Silvermoon reaches across the desk and squeezes my hand, her touch firm and grounding. “You’re stronger than you know, Poppy. But you don’t have to be strong all the time. It’s all right to be hurt.”
Her small kindness cracks me wide open.
The tears come harder now, no longer silent but accompanied by quiet sobs that I can’t control.
I press the handkerchief to my face, mortified to be crying in front of my professor but unable to stop.
All the pain I’ve been holding in for days comes pouring out—the hurt, the confusion, the desperate loneliness of losing someone who was supposed to be mine.
“I really thought—” I start, then have to stop and breathe, my chest heaving. “I really thought he was it for me. That we were going to figure it out. The distance, the future, all of it. I thought if we just wanted each other enough, it would be enough.”
“Perhaps it still will be,” Professor Silvermoon says softly. “You may still figure it out.”
I shake my head, wiping at my eyes with the now-damp handkerchief. “He said we needed a break, but the way he said it—” My voice cracks. “It didn’t sound temporary.”
“People say things they don’t mean when they’re scared. And stressed. And overwhelmed.” She leans forward, her dark blue eyes reflecting the light coming through the frosted window. “Give it time. Give him time. Finals end in two days. Perhaps things will look different then.”
But I remember the look in his eyes when he said we needed a break. The finality in his voice. The way he didn’t even try to stop me when I walked away from that table in the library, my heart in pieces, my whole world spinning out from under my feet.
“Maybe,” I whisper, but the word holds no conviction.
We finish going over the ball preparations after that, the damp handkerchief clutched in my fist. I take notes mechanically, my handwriting unusually messy, nodding as Professor Silvermoon speaks and making suggestions when prompted. But my heart isn’t in it anymore.
When we’re done, I gather my things slowly. I dread the walk back to my dorm, dread the empty hours ahead of me where all I’ll be able to do is think about him.
“Poppy?” Professor Silvermoon calls as I reach the door, my hand on the cool handle.
I pause and turn back.
She’s watching me with an oddly knowing expression, something almost like a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Sometimes,” she says quietly, “the things most worth having are the things we have to fight for.” She tilts her head slightly, studying me, her long silver hair slipping across her shoulder.
“The universe has a way of giving us what we need, but rarely when we expect it. And sometimes . . . we have to meet it halfway.”
I’m not entirely sure what she means, but the gentle encouragement in her voice makes my chest feel a little less tight, like she just gave me a tiny spark of hope.
“I’m not much of a fighter,” I whisper.
“Aren’t you?” She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been fighting since the moment you walked into my classroom as a shy, quiet first-year. And look at how far you’ve come.” She pauses, then adds softly, “Don’t stop now. Not when you’re so close to getting what you really want.”
“But I don’t know if—”
“You don’t have to know. You just have to show up.” Her smile is small. “Trust me on this.”
I want to ask what she’s seen, what she knows, but divination doesn’t work that way. She can’t just tell me the future. She can only nudge me toward it. I know that from my dreams.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice barely audible, even in the quiet classroom.
“Go rest, Miss Waverly. And remember—bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s doing what needs to be done despite it. That’s what makes you strong.”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak again, and slip out into the corridor.
Her words echo in my mind as I make my way through the castle, past students hurrying to their next exams, past professors walking with armfuls of parchment and fingers smudged with ink. Sometimes we have to meet it halfway.
But what does that mean? Does she expect me to chase after Aric? To demand he take back the break he asked for? Or does it mean something else—something about showing up to the ball, about being brave enough to face the thing that scares me most?
My mind flashes with an image of Aric dancing with Morgan, twirling her across the floor, leaving me standing in the shadows, where it feels like I’ve always been.
I clench my teeth and shove the image away, narrowly avoiding bumping into a group of fourth-years in the hallway.
All I know is that Professor Silvermoon seemed certain, like she’s already seen how this story ends.
And maybe that means there’s still hope.
The thought doesn’t ease the ache in my chest, but it plants something small inside me, something that feels like . . . courage.
Stepping into that ballroom on Saturday—wearing the dress I bought, holding my head high even if my heart is broken—will require being brave.
But if Professor Silvermoon is right, if the universe really does give us what we need when we’re willing to meet it halfway . . .
Then perhaps I need to stop waiting for things to happen to me and instead decide to fight for what I want.
I just wish I knew how.