Chapter 19 #3
As we step into the bright, living room silence of the upper floors, Dylan’s hand finds mine. I let it. I don’t think about what it means, or who’s watching.
I just hold on, and walk into the light.
The dorm is quiet, for once. No shrieks of hallway drama, no click-clack of flip-flops, no distant cackle from the communal bathroom.
It’s late enough that even the finals zombies have staggered off to their graves, leaving behind only the gentle white noise of forced air and the soft, metronomic patter of rain on the window.
My desk lamp is off, and the room is lit by the blue haze of my laptop, which paints everything in ghost colors.
I sit hunched, arms curled around my ribs, trying to muster the focus to finish the Hawthorne paper.
The words on the screen swim: “The psychological burden of shame in Puritan society is mirrored in the complex interiority of Hawthorne’s protagonists, especially as enacted by women.
” I have read the same sentence twelve times, and each time it comes back more cryptic, more meaningless.
My email inbox pings: new message.
For a second, I’m weirdly hopeful, like maybe it’s a sign from the universe. Maybe Andie, sending a meme to break the tension. Maybe a notification from the campus book store. Maybe, if I’m honest, Liam.
It’s from Liam.
No subject line, just a string of my student ID and the course code, as if even here he’s sticking to the rules.
I hover the mouse over the line, my finger trembling. I click, and the message opens in a blank white box, nothing to soften it.
Simone,
I want to sincerely apologize for any unprofessional behavior you may have experienced throughout the semester. Upon reflection, I realize my actions may have contributed to an uncomfortable environment, and that was never my intention.
Please rest assured that your final grade in American Literature will be determined solely by your academic performance, as outlined in the syllabus and departmental guidelines.
If you have any concerns, you are welcome to contact the Academic Committee or the Dean’s office directly.
I have also recused myself from any review of your graduate application, to avoid the appearance of conflict.
I wish you the best of luck with your finals, and in all your future endeavors.
Kind regards,
Professor Liam Thomas
My breath catches in my throat. I read it again, then again, each time trying to make the words mean something different.
There is nothing between the lines. No secret message, no ellipsis at the end, no hidden heart in the text. It’s the coldest, cleanest amputation I can imagine.
I stare at the message until the laptop screen times out, throwing the room into utter darkness.
I fumble for the touchpad, swipe, re-read the email as if the act might conjure an addendum, a P.S., anything. But it’s all there in the tone: the apology, the finality, the wall going up. The “Kind regards” lands like a knife.
My hands hover over the keyboard, itching to reply. I type “Thank you for your message” and delete it. I type “I understand, but—” and erase that too.
What I want to say is: I hate you for making me love you. I want to say: You’re a coward. I want to say: Why did you come to the library today? Why do you haunt the aisles like a memory I can’t shake? Why do you care enough to cut me out, but not enough to make me believe you ever cared at all?
I want to say: I don’t know how to want anything without you as the centerpiece.
But I just sit, the words dying before I can let them live.
The rain taps the window, a soft relentless Morse code. Somewhere, a siren rises and falls, then fades into silence. I can hear Andie’s gentle breathing from the other bed, a comfort and a sadness at once. She, at least, knows how to sleep.
I close the laptop. The screen goes black, and my reflection floats there, ghostly, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and damp. I look like I’m about to scream, or maybe beg.
I slide from my chair onto the bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin. The world shrinks to the four walls of this room, the faint glow of rain-dappled streetlights filtering through the blinds. I count the breaths until my heart slows, until I can almost pretend the email didn’t happen.
But it did.
And now, I’m left with the question I can’t answer, the one Andie posed and I still haven’t resolved: Do I want Liam back, knowing what it cost me the first time? Or do I want to be free, knowing that “free” is just another word for empty?
I stare at the ceiling, at the patterns the rain makes as it runs in rivers down the glass. I think about tomorrow, and the paper, and the way Dylan squeezed my hand in the library, as if to remind me that there are other options, other people, other lives.
But none of it feels true. Not yet.
I close my eyes, willing myself to sleep, but all I see is Liam’s face, the hollow sadness in it, the way his voice went soft when he said my name.
I try to picture a future without him, and I can’t.
For now, the only thing I know how to do is wait.
Wait for morning, wait for the next message, wait for the part of me that isn’t built out of need.
I roll onto my side and clutch the pillow, hard enough that my fingers ache.
Outside, the rain keeps falling, and the city drowns in its own white noise.
Inside, I listen to my own heart, hoping it will tell me what to do.
It doesn’t.
Not yet.
But maybe tomorrow.