51. Eden
EDEN
Ishould’ve felt proud. That’s what everyone kept saying—You did it, man. You should be proud of yourself.
And I was. Kind of.
I mean, I worked my ass off to get here. Early practices. Late-night study sessions. Balancing hockey and making sure my GPA was good enough.
I didn’t coast through this, and yeah, walking across that stage with my cap crooked and my tassel smacking me in the face felt like a victory.
But all I could think about was Alana.
I scanned the crowd a hundred times, even when I knew she wouldn’t be there.
Some pathetic part of me still hoped I’d see her. Like maybe she’d show up in the back, wearing one of those oversized cardigans and hugging a coffee cup like she was trying to disappear into the crowd.
Maybe she’d surprise me, like some kind of movie ending where everything made sense again.
But no.
I sat there, listening to the speeches no one really cared about, clapping when everyone else clapped, and smiling for pictures I’m probably never going to print.
My mom cried. My sisters took, like, 300 photos. My dad clapped so hard I thought he’d dislocate something. My brother was… well, bored, as always, but he looked proud of me.
And I was happy to see them happy. I was.
But Alana wasn’t there. And that made everything feel… incomplete. Off. Like I’d won the game but lost the person I wanted to share it with.
She hadn’t texted me since that night at her apartment. The night I tried to explain everything, voice shaking, hands shaking, heart shaking—and she didn’t believe me.
Or maybe she did believe me, somewhere deep down, but just couldn’t handle the risk.
I still heard her voice in my head: “Well, what am I supposed to think about someone with a reputation like yours?”
That line haunted me more than any of the lies Tori ever wrote.
Because yeah. I had a reputation. And it wasn’t spotless. I’d been reckless, careless, whatever. But never with her. Not even close.
So I stood there on the stage, diploma in hand, stupid cap crooked on my curls, and I smiled for the camera while something in my chest cracked a little more.
When the ceremony ended, everyone flooded the quad. Confetti, champagne, people screaming. The energy was unreal.
And for a second, I let myself enjoy it. Let myself laugh with my teammates and hug my mom tight enough she couldn’t breathe. Let myself believe this moment was allowed to be happy.
But I kept checking my phone.
Nothing.
No “congrats.” No “saw your name on the graduation program.”
Not even a stupid joking picture. And yeah, I knew that sounded dumb, but she used to send me the most unhinged memes whenever she didn’t know how to say something serious. I would’ve taken that.
Eventually, the crowd thinned. My family went to grab food, and I said I’d meet them in a bit. I just needed a minute. Alone.
I found this bench on the edge of campus. It was near the library Alana liked to study at when it rained. I sat down, diploma still in my hand like I didn’t know what to do with it. I guess part of me had pictured giving it to her, like Look, I made it.
Like it was proof I wasn’t the guy everyone thought I was. That I could be more.
But it was just me and the wind and this stupid piece of paper now.
I leaned back, closed my eyes for a second, and let the silence swallow me. No cheering. No cameras. No fake smiles.
Just… missing her.
Because she should’ve been here. For everything. For the late-night freak-outs, the 7:00 a.m. coffee run, and the stupid group photo with the mascot. For the speech where I was too nervous to look up, and for the part when I walked across the stage and wished like hell she was watching.
It wasn’t just about wanting her to see me win. It was about wanting her there because she mattered. Because she changed everything. Because when I look back on this part of my life—the late nights, the hard losses, the wins, the confusion, the panic—she’s stitched into all of it.
I don’t know how you’re supposed to celebrate when the thing you care about most feels gone.
I pulled out my phone again, just to look at our old texts. Scrolled up way too far, rereading her dumb jokes and the way she always corrected my grammar in lowercase.
Alana was annoying like that. It made me smile.
And then I typed out a message I didn’t send:
Wish you were here.
I stared at it for a long time. I even hovered over the “send” button.
But I didn’t press it.
I couldn’t.
Because maybe she really was done. Maybe the damage was too deep. Maybe it didn’t matter that I never cheated, or that I never even thought about anyone else.
Maybe loving someone wasn’t always enough.
So I deleted the text, shoved my phone back in my pocket, and stood up. I had a dinner to get to. A party later. People who were proud of me.
But walking away from that bench, it didn’t feel like an ending or a celebration.
It felt like something I’d never get back.
And I wasn’t sure I’d ever soar again.