The corridor was alive with voices, a restless current of students gathered around the notice board. Paper rustled on the wall, fresh exam results pinned up, and the air was thick with relief for some, dread for others.
Adam stood in the middle of it, shoulder slouched beneath the weight of his backpack, his eyes dragging reluctantly down the printed list of names. His finger paused halfway down. He didn't need to trace further, he already knew where his fell.
Second from the bottom.
A hollow drop settled in his stomach, heavier than any punch he'd ever taken on the court. He swallowed, jaw tight, but the names above him, dozens of them seemed to glow brighter, clearer, as though mocking him.
The chatter around blurred together: laughter, sighs of relief, groans, shoes squeaking on the polished tile. For Adam, all of it dulled beneath the weight of a single truth, he had failing, even though on average these were his highest scores yet. And worse, if Harris hadn't withdrawn, he'd already be walking a fine line toward expulsion.
What resonated more was the fact that abunch of the other students had twenty percent of their average cut due to the party incident which significantly lowered their average, and yet somehow he was still second last. Adam felt utterly stupid for this
Beside him, Abigail shifted. She wore a black oversized hoodie over her uniform, hood pushed down, hair tucked messily behind her ear. The dark fabric seemed to swallow her, and yet, her voice cut through the haze like a soft thread.
"Second last," she murmured, reading his name just above the bottom. Her lips twitched, not into a smirk but something almost playful. "Not bad."
Adam exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, but it never quite made it past his throat. "Yeah right, I'm Still in the gutter."
"You're not in the gutter," she said, tugging lightly at his sleeve as if pulling him away from the board. "You passed enough. That's what counts. And technically," her tone lifted, mock-serious, "you're safe. Harris dropped out and your not last. You're not getting expelled."
"That's not exactly a trophy," he muttered.
"It's enough for a coffee."
Adam blinked at her. "…What?"
Abigail tilted her head toward the cafeteria wing. "The new café extension? They opened it this week. You survived exams, barely. That deserves something sweet. Come on. My treat."
He hesitated, brows pinched. The disappointment clung to him, sticky, insistent. "I don't feel like celebrating."
"You never do." Her voice softened, the faintest crease in her brow betraying what she wouldn't say aloud. "That's why you need me."
She didn't wait for him to argue. She started walking, hands tucked in her hoodie pocket, and Adam found himself trailing after her, reluctant but unable to shake the quiet pull of her insistence.
The new café extension smelled faintly of fresh varnish and ground coffee beans. It was sleek, modern, with warm wood counters and glass cases lined with pastries under soft yellow lights. Students milled in and out, voices low, the space already becoming a new hub.
Adam followed Abigail to a corner booth, but paused when he noticed two familiar figures already seated there. Amber sat stiffly, hands clasped on the table, while Anissa leaned back, her arms crossed, gaze steady as if daring the world to approach. Their uniforms were neat but lifeless, pressed without care.
Amber looked up first, her eyes red-rimmed though her smile tried to hold. "Oh, hey, you two."
Abigail slid into the booth without hesitation, leaving Adam to take the spot beside her. The table was suddenly crowded, their group a patchwork of silence and forced composure.
"What'll you have?" Abigail asked, scanning the menu board on the wall.
"Water's fine," Adam mumbled.
Amber frowned. "Water? Come on. At least get a latte or something. We're in mourning, not the Stone Age."
Her attempt at levity faltered at the edges, trembling. Adam glanced at her, at the way her nails dug crescents into her palm where her hands clenched together. He saw the tightness in her jaw, the weight she tried to mask under humor.
"I'll get him something," Abigail said simply, and before Adam could protest, she stood and went to order.
When she was gone, the silence thickened. Amber looked down at her lap, blinking fast. Anissa kept her gaze fixed on the opposite wall, shoulders squared.
"It's been a week," Adam said carefully, unsure if the words would soothe or sting. "I'm… I'm sorry. For your dad."
Amber's lips pressed together. She didn't answer.
Anissa spoke instead, her voice low, even. "We don't need condolences."
Amber flinched, but didn't argue.
Adam shifted, caught in the gulf between them. He realized then that Abigail was the glue, the quiet one who held the weight of them all, but without her at the table, their cracks showed too clearly.
The drinks arrived on a tray in Abigail's hands. She slid a cappuccino toward Adam, set iced tea in front of Amber, and a black coffee before Anissa. She didn't ask preferences; she already knew.
Amber picked hers up, fingers trembling. "Thanks, Abby."
"Don't thank me," Abigail said quietly, sliding into her seat. "Drink."
They did. The silence stretched until the sound of laughter cut through, a group of football players entering, loud and oblivious. One of them peeled away, spotting Amber.
"Hey," he said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. About your dad. If you need anything—"
Amber froze, cup halfway to her lips. Her breath hitched. She didn't speak, didn't move. But Adam saw it, the flicker in her eyes, a sudden yellow glint catching the light like molten metal. Her jaw tightened, lips pressing over the faint flash of sharp teeth that hadn't been there a second ago.
Anissa was up before anyone else. She grabbed the boy's wrist and pushed it firmly off Amber's shoulder. Her voice was sharp, cutting. "Leave her alone."
The boy blinked, startled. "I was just—"
"No."
Something in her tone made him stumble back, muttering an awkward apology before rejoining his teammates. Their laughter dimmed as they glanced back, uneasy.
Amber's hands shook around her glass. She squeezed her eyes shut, biting back something raw, dangerous.
Adam stared, heart pounding, not just from what he'd seen, but from the ache beneath it. The grief, the anger, the loss that barely fit inside their bodies anymore.
Abigail reached across the table, covering Amber's hand with hers. Her touch was steady, grounding. "Breathe," she whispered.
Amber nodded once, swallowing hard, the glow fading from her eyes.
Adam watched her, then looked at Abigail, the quiet leader, the one who absorbed everything and let out nothing. He realized how heavy her silence was, how much it cost her to keep it. And in the way she sat closer to him than she needed to, in the way she knew his drink without asking, in the way her gaze softened only when it landed on him, there was something else.
Something Adam didn't see. Something he couldn't.
The café buzzed on, life continuing around them, but at their booth, the air was thick with unspoken things: grief, restraint, affection buried under denial.
Adam lifted his cup at last, the warmth of it seeping into his hands. He didn't know what to say to ease them, to fix any of it. He only knew he was with them, here, in this moment.
And for now, that was enough.
***
The football field was deserted.
Not just quiet, the kind of empty where you could hear your own heartbeat if you sat still long enough. Adam sat slouched on the middle row of the bleachers, a sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil tapping in idle rhythm.
The page was cluttered with half-finished lines. A face sketched too roughly to recognize. The arc of a basketball mid-flight. A pair of eyes, shaded darker than they should've been. He dragged the pencil across the margin again, but the graphite smudged, his hand heavy.
He let out a breath through his teeth and leaned back. The metal pressed cold through his hoodie.
Above, the night sky sprawled in velvet. Stars pricked through like pinholes, faint, some barely visible through the wash of the moon. The moon itself, almost full, hung heavy and pale, a lantern for a world gone still.
The field below was silver with its light. The goalposts were long shadows on the grass. No laughter, no shouts, no sound of sneakers squeaking against hardwood, just the occasional whistle of wind and the faraway hum of crickets.
Adam closed the sketchbook and held it against his chest. He wasn't really drawing anymore. Not for the past hour. It was more an excuse to sit here, away from the walls of his dorm, away from noise.
Since the school lifted curfew, the nights had been his again. He could walk the paths, sit in the bleachers, breathe air that wasn't stale with other people's presence. Sometimes, that was all he needed.
He rubbed his thumb over the edge of the sketchbook, glanced toward the dorm lights in the distance. Time to head back.
Adam slid the pencil into the spine, tucked the book under his arm, and stood. The bleachers creaked, metal sighing under his weight. Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he stepped down onto the path, shoulders loosening as he slipped his hands into his pockets.
It should've been an easy walk back. Ten minutes, maybe less. But halfway across the field, he froze.
There.
A sound.
Soft, faint, but cutting through the insect chorus.
Plip.
Water disturbed. Then silence. Then again. Plip.
Adam's brows drew together. He knew that sound. He'd heard it before.
Someone throwing pebbles into the river.
He stopped at the edge of the path, tilting his head. The river ran along the far side of the compound, tucked into the trees where the school grounds brushed the edge of Moonstone Forest. Most students didn't go there. Too far, too dark.
But Adam knew the sound. He'd heard it nights before, walking back late from the gym or study hall. A soft, steady rhythm, like someone trying to empty their thoughts stone by stone.
And tonight… it was there again.
He hesitated. He could turn back. Pretend he hadn't noticed. But something about the sound tugged at him, almost insistent.
He left the path, slipping through the trees. Branches brushed his shoulders, leaves whispering as he pushed past. The ground grew softer, damp with earth, until he caught the faint glimmer of water ahead.
The river.
And her.
Abigail sat at the bank, knees hugged close, hoodie pulled over her uniform. Her hair fell forward, catching silver in the moonlight, her profile sharp against the ripple of the current. She bent, picked up another pebble, flicked it forward.
Plip.
It vanished, swallowed by the black water.
Adam lingered at the edge of the clearing, just watching. She looked smaller like this. Not the composed, untouchable girl who carried herself like she had iron in her veins. Just a figure hunched in the cold, throwing pieces of the earth away one by one.
He cleared his throat lightly. "Trying to make it skip?"
Abigail didn't turn. Her hand paused over the grass, another pebble clutched tight.
"No." Her voice was clipped, low. "I'm not."
Adam stepped closer, the grass whispering under his sneakers. "Could've fooled me."
She threw the pebble harder this time. The splash was louder, almost angry.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"Neither are you."
Her shoulders tensed. He could almost feel her stiffening, like a string pulled too tight.
"I wanted to be alone."
Adam hesitated, then lowered himself onto the grass beside her. The damp earth pressed cold against his palms as he leaned back. "Yeah, well. You're always there for me. Tonight, it's my turn."
That got her attention. She turned her head just enough to look at him. The moon caught her eyes, pale and glinting, and for a moment, he saw a flicker, like she wanted to tell him to leave, to push him out.
But she didn't.
Instead, she sighed, sharp and shaky, and let the pebble fall uselessly from her hand.
It rolled into the current and disappeared.
They sat in silence. Not uncomfortable, just heavy. The river murmured on, endless, carrying pebbles, leaves, and unspoken things away.
Abigail's fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. She pulled the fabric over her hands, knuckles white where she clenched.
"My dad was strict," she said suddenly.
Adam turned, surprised.
Her voice was steady, but thin, like glass held too long over a flame. "Brutal sometimes. He never smiled. Never let us off easy. If we failed, he made sure we remembered. If we slacked, he reminded us who we were. I hated him for it."
Adam said nothing. He let her speak.
"I used to think he was just cruel. That maybe he cared more about the family name than about us." Her jaw tightened, eyes on the water. "And I told myself, when I was older, I'd get out. I'd live free."
Her breath trembled. The stone mask she wore around everyone else wavered.
"But now he's gone. And I realize…" She swallowed hard. "It wasn't cruelty. It was strength. He made us strong. Strong enough to stand when everything else falls apart. And I—"
Her voice cracked. The pebble in her hand slipped, tumbling into the river. "I miss him."
The words hung there, raw and unguarded.
Adam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He picked at the grass between his shoes, heart tightening.
"My dad wasn't strict," he said quietly. "Not like yours. But he was tough. Worked two jobs, barely slept. And still found time to push me. Basketball, school, everything. He wanted me to make something of myself. Some days I hated it too. Thought he just didn't get me. Thought he was asking too much."
He plucked a stone and flicked it toward the water. It sank instantly.
"Now that I'm here? On my own? I get it. He was giving me all he had. Even when it didn't feel like love, it was. That's the thing about dads. They teach you lessons you don't understand until it's too late."
Abigail's lips trembled. She blinked fast, fighting it back. For once, the control she prided herself on wasn't enough.
"I keep telling myself I have to be strong," she whispered. "For Amber. For Anissa. For everyone. If I break, they break. But I can't—"
Her voice cracked again.
Adam reached out before he could think better of it. His hand brushed her shoulder, light, steady. She stiffened under his touch, but then the tension collapsed.
The first tear slipped down her cheek. She bit her sleeve, stifling the sound, but the second came harder. And then the third.
And then she broke.
Abigail pressed her face against his shoulder, fists twisting into his hoodie. A sob tore out, muffled, but raw. Her whole body shook.
Adam wrapped an arm around her, holding her close. His other hand moved slowly across her back, steady as the river. He didn't tell her to stop. Didn't try to fix it. He just let her cry.
The sound carried into the night, unpolished and human. It was the kind of grief that left no room for pride.
Minutes blurred. Her sobs dulled to hiccups, then to shallow breaths. She pulled back, swiping her sleeve across her cheeks. Her eyes were rimmed red, lashes clumped with tears, but she looked… lighter.
"You weren't supposed to see that," she muttered.
Adam gave her a small, tired smile. "I wasn't supposed to see alot of things."
She huffed a half-laugh, half-sigh, then surprised him by leaning in again, this time calmer, arms slipping around his waist.
A deliberate embrace. A thank you without words.
Adam closed his eyes and held her. The river ran on, steady and endless, carrying their silence into the dark.
And for the first time in days, the night felt hopeful.