Senior Year
ASHA
I’ve been standing outside his dorm room too long. If I stand here any longer, I’ll make myself late for class. I pull in a long breath and take a step forward, letting my knuckles meet the door before I can overthink it any more.
The Tupperware container feels ridiculous in my hands. I made protein-packed chocolate chip cookies because, of course, I researched what he actually eats instead of just bringing regular cookies like a normal person. Apparently, I can't do anything halfway when it comes to him.
I hear footsteps grow closer, and then the door swings open, and he’s there.
God, it isn't fair. How is it possible that he looks better every time I see him?
His dark hair is perfectly messy in that way that suggests he's been running his hands through it, and there's stubble along his jaw that wasn't there in AP biology yesterday.
He's wearing a fitted black t-shirt that clings to shoulders that have definitely gotten broader since freshman year, and I can see the definition of his arms, the way his muscles shift as he grips the doorframe.
His eyes widen. "What—"
"Hi." My voice comes out smaller than I intend. I thrust the container toward him. "I made you cookies. They're high-protein, almond flour, Greek yogurt, that kind of thing."
He stares at me like I've sprouted a second head. "You made me cookies?"
"Don't make it weird."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and I feel that familiar flip in my stomach that I've been trying to ignore for months now. "You're standing outside my door with cookies you specially formulated for my diet. It's already weird."
"Do you want them or not?"
He takes the container slowly, his fingers brushing mine. That brief contact sends electricity up my arm, and from the way his breath hitches slightly, he feels it too. "Why are you really here?"
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the hallway. "We're graduating in four days."
"I'm aware."
"And I realized..." I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes. Those eyes that have looked at me with anger, frustration, and then, over the past year, something softer. Something that terrifies me. "I never apologized."
His expression shifts, becomes more guarded. "For what?"
"For what happened at the homecoming auction. That was... You warned me about Emma.” My throat tightens. "You were right, and I knowingly threw it in your face."
He's quiet, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.
"For the milkshake." I take a shaky breath. "And for what I said about your manners. About your mom. That was—" My eyes burn. "That was unforgivable, and I'm so sorry."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we've been dancing around for months.
All those late-night student council meetings that ran long, the accidental coffee runs that became intentional, the way we somehow always end up at the stables at the same time.
The way he looks at me sometimes, like I'm something precious instead of the girl who made his life hell for four years.
"Do you want to come in?" His voice is rough, careful.
I look past him into his room. I can see his desk, books stacked neatly, a sweatshirt thrown over his chair. It would be so easy to say yes. To step into his space, to let down the walls I've spent so long building.
But I can see his roommate's empty bed too, and I know what coming inside means. Not physically—though, God, the way he's looking at me makes heat pool in my stomach—but emotionally. It means opening a door I've been holding shut with both hands. It means trusting someone again.
Everyone I trust leaves. Or uses me. Or proves that my faith in them is just another weakness to exploit.
He shifts, and the movement draws my attention to his chest, the way he's still gripping the doorframe like he needs to hold onto something. Like maybe I'm not the only one affected here. That scares me more than anything.
I take a step back, and his face falls, just slightly, but I see it. That flash of disappointment, like he's been expecting this all along.
"No," I say, and my voice cracks. "I just wanted you to know. I'm sorry. For all of it."
"That's it?" Something sharp enters his tone. "You show up, apologize for years of making me your personal villain, and just leave?"
"I'm not…" I wrap my arms tighter around myself. "I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah," he says, stepping into the hallway, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean that I've started associating with safety and late nights where I forget to be afraid. "It actually really does matter."
I can't breathe. He's too close, and I can see the way his jaw clenches to hide the hurt he's trying to hide behind frustration.
"I have to go," I whisper.
"You don't."
"I do." I take another step back, even though everything in me is screaming to move closer. "Enjoy the cookies."
I turn before I can do something stupid, like confess that I want to step inside his room more than I've wanted anything in years.
"Hey."
I stop but don't turn around.
"Never apologize for who you are." His voice is achingly soft now. "It's what makes you…you, sweetheart."
That damn nickname.
I inhale sharply, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
He started calling me that years ago. That stupid, infuriating endearment that I claimed to hate, that I rolled my eyes at, that I told him to stop using.
But somewhere along the way, it became the thing I waited for with bated breath.
The proof that whatever this thing between us is, it's still there.
That he still sees me as more than just the girl who made him miserable.
That he still cares, deeply, in a way that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
I close my eyes and keep walking. Behind me, I hear his door click shut, and I'm not sure if I made a mistake.
He heard an apology. I bared my soul. I showed him a part of me I don't give people, that I know when I'm wrong, that I care, that I feel something.
And that's the part that might be a mistake. Feeling. Caring. Wanting.
Things are going to change tonight for better or worse, I don't know. But I do know this: I'm done collecting regrets, and not giving him those words would have been one I couldn't live with.
"All that's left on the agenda for today's meeting is tonight's prom. We have been asked to collect the school-issued phones thirty minutes before the dance is over," Eldrige drones on about the evening as I stare out the window, feeling anxious about this evening.
Sure, my costume is ready; that was the easy part.
The moment the faculty announced they'd chosen this year's prom theme, masquerade ball, to coincide with our secret pen pal assignment, I knew exactly who I'd be.
Rapunzel. This school has been my tower, a gilded prison designed to keep me from the only place I want to be, home.
I want to believe my father meant well when he sent me here.
I know he loves me. We talk regularly, our bond somehow surviving the distance.
But every year when I bring up coming home, he shuts me down.
The conversation always ends the same way: "You can come home when you're eighteen, if that's what you still want. "
Still want.
Those words haunt me. Why would he phrase it like that? As if I'd want to be anywhere else. As if years of begging haven't made my feelings crystal clear. What is he afraid I'll discover? What does he think will change?
However, it's not the costume or my father's cryptic words.
None of that is what's keeping me awake this week.
Tonight, I finally meet my secret pen pal face to face.
Our texts have been my oxygen in this suffocating place, each one a reminder that someone sees me.
But words behind a screen are safe. Controllable.
Tonight, we step out from behind our careful sentences, and I don't know how I’m going to feel once all our cards are finally on the table.
"Earth to Asha," Eldridge says, waving his hand in front of my face as he stands between me and the view out of the window.
"Hmm," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Tonight, you and me at 11:30. We're collecting phones."
"Oh, I can't. You'll have to find someone else," I say, setting down the pen I'd been anxiously tapping on my notebook.
Things haven’t been the same since I caught Eldridge and Emma scheming behind my back.
Catching someone in the act, hearing the lies come from their mouth rather than discovering the truth after the fact, is a different experience.
I’m cordial in our student council meetings and classes, but outside of that, we don’t talk.
"You can't?" Trigger questions from the head of the table.
Just like me, he's been unusually quiet for today's meeting. His eyes tracked my every move when I entered the meeting. I could feel them, though I didn’t meet his gaze. I couldn’t after giving him the cookies this morning.
Of course, I knew I’d have to see him today more than once, but the way I’m feeling is new, and I honestly don’t know what to do with it.
He let Eldridge run today's meeting, and I assumed it was because he no longer cared to carry out the task. The school year is over. We’re all graduating.
But if that were true, he wouldn’t be questioning me now.
Why push me to work with people he knows crossed me? Why give a damn about this last task?
"Yeah, I can't. I have plans."
"Plans?" He folds his hands on the table in front of him. "We all have plans tonight. It's prom."
"Exactly. So you understand why I'm busy," I reply, my voice sugary sweet.
"We're all meeting our pen pals tonight. Phone duty is at 11:30." His tone is flat, almost bored. "Unless you need extra time to get ready."
He asked me to stay this morning, and I didn't. Is he mad?