54
Hannah
I do not go to Nate right away.
That feels important. Vital, even. A tiny, fragile act of moral housekeeping in a room that has been messy for far too long.
After Ethan walks away—after I watch his shoulders stiffen as he retreats down the library path—I stand by the fountain with my phone in my hand and my heart cracked open in several inconvenient places.
Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to run to Nate’s apartment. My skin feels sensitized, still humming from the way he held me last night, and the silence of my phone is a vacuum I want him to fill. But I don’t move. I can’t.
Because last night, I chose with my body before I cleaned up the wreckage my fear had made.
Because Ethan deserved better than being the boy I stepped around on my way to a truth I should have admitted weeks ago.
If I go to Nate now, it needs to be because I’m finished with the lies, not because I’m looking for a place to hide from the guilt.
So I walk. No destination, no plan. Just my feet moving across the quad while the cold air bites at my nose and my hands shake inside my coat pockets.
The campus is obnoxiously, aggressively alive.
Students weave around me, clutching steaming coffees and arguing about anatomy exams.
A golden retriever lunges at a pile of leaves near the lawn, and a couple sits on a bench, sharing earbuds and looking like they haven’t a single secret between them.
Good for them. I hope they have insurance for when the storm hits.
My phone buzzes. Ella.
**Ella:** *You okay?*
The question that has become the soundtrack of my collapse. I pull my collar up against the wind.
**Hannah:** *Not really. Talked to Ethan. It’s over.*
**Ella:** *Where are you? Alone?*
**Hannah:** *Yeah. I need a minute.*
**Ella:** *Okay. Text me when you’re coming back. Proud of you for doing the hard thing.*
I stare at the word *Proud*. It nearly folds me in half. I don’t feel proud. I feel hollow. I feel like I took too long to be brave, and now the bravery just feels like an apology that arrived a day late. But maybe overdue honesty is still the only path forward.
I end up at the small pond behind the science building.
It’s a quiet, desolate spot where the wind is criminal and the benches are usually empty.
I sit down, the cold seeping through my jeans, and stare at the gray, flat water.
Ethan’s voice keeps replaying in my head: *I hope he’s worth it.
* Not bitter. Not a jab. Just a sincere, heartbreaking hope.
I stay there until my cheeks are numb and my tears have dried into that tight, itchy feeling I hate. Then, I pull out my phone.
**Hannah:** *I’m going to my dorm first. I need to talk to Ella.*
I send it, wondering if he’ll think I’m retreating again. Nate’s reply comes a minute later.
**Nate:** *Okay. Take your time. And Hannah? I’m not going anywhere.*
I press the phone to my chest, closing my eyes. That sentence lands deeper than any declaration of love. It’s the first thing he’s said that sounds like *staying*.
Ella is waiting for me. She doesn't ask questions when I walk in. She just opens her arms, and I fall into her, finally letting the quiet sobs out. I tell her everything—the look on Ethan’s face, the way I told him the truth, the weight of the "I'm sorry" that wasn't enough.
“You did a bad thing in a bad order,” Ella says, her voice steady as she rubs my back. “But that is not the same as being a bad person. You told him the truth today. That’s the accountability part.”
“I’m going to see Nate now,” I whisper after a while, wiping my eyes.
“For comfort?”
I think about that. A week ago, comfort was my excuse. It was the "safe" word I used to justify the pull toward him. “No,” I say. “I’m going because I chose him. And I need to tell him that out loud.”
I walk to my dresser and open the bottom drawer.
Both of Nate’s shirts are there now. The one I wore last night is folded on top.
I hold it for a second, breathing in the scent of him, before setting it back down.
I change into a simple gray sweater and jeans.
Nothing date-cute. Nothing performative. Just me.
Nate opens the door before I can even lift my hand to knock. He’s in sweats and a dark long-sleeve shirt, his hair still damp from a shower. He looks at me like he wants to reach out and pull me into the room, but he stays behind the threshold, waiting for permission.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” His eyes scan my face, landing on my red-rimmed eyes. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I admit. “But I’m here.”
He lets me in, locking the door with a soft *click*. We sit at the kitchen table, two water bottles positioned like plastic chaperones between us. I tell him about the conversation with Ethan—the hurt, the kindness, and the fact that I told him we slept together.
Nate’s jaw flexes. He looks away for a second, his throat moving as he swallows. “How did he take it?”
“He said he hoped you were worth it.”
Nate’s face shifts. The smirk, the hockey-player confidence—it’s all gone. He looks scared enough to ask the question I’ve been dreading. “Am I?”
“I think you are,” I say, my voice trembling. “But I don't want to jump from Ethan to you like I’m just trading places. I want this to be real.”
“I want you, Hannah,” Nate says, leaning forward. “I know I said I don’t do relationships. I meant it then. But I think what I really meant was I don't do relationships with people I can keep at a distance. And I can't keep you at a distance.”
My heart swells, a bright, painful bloom of hope. “For real?”
“For real. No lessons. No fake dating. No using anyone as an excuse.”
I look at him across the table. “Are we... are we dating?”
Nate blinks, a look of genuine shock crossing his face before a slow, unguarded smile breaks through. “Do you want to be?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes. We’re dating.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “That was suspiciously easy.”
“You want me to make it harder?”
“No. But you’re a boyfriend now, Nate. You have to be okay with the word.”
He leans closer, his eyes dark and warm. “Boyfriend.”
My stomach flips. “That was too smooth. Weaponized.”
“Girlfriend,” he counters.
I hide my face in my hands, my entire body going warm. “I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
We don't go to the bedroom. We move to the couch, wrapped in an old blanket because I’ve decided his apartment is an emotional freezer. I tuck my feet under his thigh, and he lets me, his hand resting near my knee.
“We should talk about the public stuff,” he says eventually. “I’m not hiding you, Hannah. I won’t parade it in front of Ethan, but I’m not acting like a stranger again. If you take my hand, I’m not letting go.”
“I don’t want to hide,” I say, leaning my head on his shoulder. “I just want to be honest.”
“We can do that,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “We don't have to pretend the way it started was clean. We just have to make what happens next honest.”
I squeeze his hand under the blanket, feeling the callouses on his palms, the steady beat of his heart through his shirt.
For the first time in months, I am not standing between two doors, wondering which one is locked.
I am sitting beside the one I chose. It’s new, it’s wobbly, and it’s a little bit terrifying—but it’s ours. And for once, I’m not running.