A Father's Care
Enid's POV – Sunday, September 5th, 2021 (Morning)
Sunday mornings at Nevermore were a study in contrasts. The air was crisp and cool, the ancient stone of the academy softened by the gentle morning light, but the student body was a shambling horde of the sleep-deprived and the magically hungover.
Enid, however, felt like she had personally swallowed the sun.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, a ridiculously happy, unstoppable force of energy, as she and Yoko made their way to the Quad for their traditional Sunday morning smoothie-and-gossip session.
The memory of the weekend was a warm, fizzy feeling in her chest—the Fencing Hall, the shared glances, the quiet victory in the library, and the ghost of his hand, warm and solid, still tingling in her own.
"You're humming again," Yoko observed, her voice a low, suffering groan from behind her dark sunglasses. "It's a K-pop song. At nine in the morning. On a Sunday. Have you no respect for the undead?"
"It's a beautiful day!" Enid chirped, doing a little spin that made her scarf flare out. "The sun is shining, the gargoyles are gargoyling, and I have a full day of not having classes and maybe, possibly, getting a text from a certain project partner."
"I have created a monster," Yoko lamented to the sky. "A cheerful, hopelessly smitten monster."
As they rounded the corner into the main courtyard, Enid's happy bubble was abruptly punctured by the sight of a crowd.
A significant crowd. At least twenty students were huddled around the main bulletin board near the entrance to the west wing, a space usually reserved for club sign-up sheets and official school announcements.
There was a low hum of excited chatter, the glint of money changing hands, and the occasional burst of laughter.
"What's going on over there?" Enid asked, her gossip-hound instincts immediately on high alert. "Is there a scandal? A new secret society? Did someone finally get photographic evidence of the lake monster?"
"Whatever it is," Yoko said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion, "a crowd of that size on a Sunday morning can only mean one of two things: free food or public humiliation. My bet is on the latter."
Driven by a curiosity that far outweighed her caution, Enid grabbed Yoko's arm and began dragging her toward the commotion. "Come on! We have to see!"
"I have a very bad feeling about this," Yoko muttered, but she allowed herself to be pulled along.
As they got closer, Enid could hear snippets of conversation floating on the cool morning air.
"—ten bucks says he makes the first move. He's got that quiet intensity."
"—no way, Sinclair is the bold one. I saw her just take his phone the other day. Total power move."
"—I'm putting twenty on 'first kiss happens by accident during a werewolf-related mishap.' Seems thematic."
Enid froze mid-step, her blood running cold. She could feel the color draining from her face. "Oh no," she whispered, a feeling of profound, dawning horror washing over her.
"What?" Yoko asked, her head tilted. Then her own vampirically sharp hearing caught the drift of the conversation. Her mouth formed a perfect, silent 'O' of dawning comprehension. "Oh, no."
Enid pointed a single, trembling finger toward the center of the crowd. Pushed to the very edge of the bulletin board, a large, ornate piece of parchment had been pinned up. At the top, in elegant, gothic script that was far too well-done for a simple prank, were the words:
The Official Beoulve-Sinclair Partnership Futures Market
It was the betting pool. But it wasn't just a few chalk marks on a forgotten board anymore. It had gone pro.
They pushed their way to the front, the other students parting with knowing smirks and hushed whispers. A siren Enid recognized—Kent, from her fencing practice—was acting as the bookie, a thick leather-bound ledger open in front of him. He was collecting bets with a slick, professional grin, clearly reveling in the attention. The parchment listed the odds, which had clearly been updated and expanded since Enid's brief, horrifying glimpse of the rumor.
WILL THEY OR WON'T THEY?
Yes: 1 to 5 (Odds slashed after the "Merged Table" event)
No: 20 to 1
PROP BETS:
First Kiss Before the Poe Cup (Oct 24): 3 to 1
Official "Relationship Status" by the Rave'N (Nov 3): 2 to 1
Sinclair Survives First Full Moon (Sept 20): 50 to 1
Beoulve Cracks a Full, Tooth-Showing Smile in Public: 75 to 1
Xavier Thorpe Writes a Sonnet About Their Love: EVEN MONEY
Yoko Tanaka Officiates the Wedding: 100 to 1
Enid stared at the board, her face burning with a level of mortification so intense she thought she might actually spontaneously combust.
Her entire, fragile, secret, wonderful new relationship had been turned into a public spectator sport, complete with odds and prop bets. It was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to her.
"Oh, this is good," Yoko breathed, a look of pure, unadulterated, morbid glee on her face.
She stepped forward, pulling a crisp twenty-dollar bill from her pocket as if she'd been waiting for this moment her entire life. "Kent, my love," she purred, her voice cutting through the chatter. "Put me down for twenty on 'Sinclair Survives.' The odds are too good to pass up."
"YOKO!" Enid shrieked, her voice a horrified whisper. "You can't bet on my survival!"
"Why not?" Yoko asked, taking the neatly written receipt from Kent and tucking it away.
"I have faith in you. A fifty-to-one return is a solid investment in our friendship." She turned to Enid, her expression turning serious, though her eyes danced with amusement. "And for the record, I'm also putting ten on 'Yes.' Because despite my better judgment and all the available evidence, I think you might actually be good for him."
The unexpected sincerity of the statement, buried under layers of sarcasm and morbid humor, hit Enid right in the chest, stealing her breath for a moment. Before she could reply, a familiar, condescending voice cut through the crowd like a silver knife.
"Well, look what we have here," Bianca Barclay said, gliding to the front as the other students instinctively parted for her. Her own pod, Divina and a different siren, trailed in her wake. She scanned the board, a cruel, amused smirk on her face. "A betting pool. How… pedestrian." Her eyes landed on the "First Kiss" prop bet, and she let out a small, dismissive laugh. "Three-to-one? That's generous. I'd put my money on 'never'."
She looked directly at Enid, her voice dripping with a venomous sweetness. "Some things just aren't meant to be, Sinclair. You can't tame a rabid dog, you can only put it down."
The crowd went silent. The fun, gossipy energy evaporated, replaced by a tense, ugly quiet.
Enid felt her claws prickle under her nails, a familiar heat of rage building in her chest. She opened her mouth to spit back a retort, but before she could, her phone buzzed in her pocket. The vibration was a welcome, grounding shock.
She pulled it out, her hands trembling slightly with anger. It was a text from him.
Gabriel Beoulve 🐺✨: I heard a rumor that my public smile is a 75 to 1 longshot. Seems low.
Enid stared at the message. He knew. Of course he knew. He had likely heard the entire, humiliating spectacle from his dorm room window. She expected him to be angry, to be mortified, to retreat back into his fortress.
But he was making a joke. He was turning it into a secret, a conspiracy. An "us."
A slow, brilliant, defiant smile spread across her face. Her anger at Bianca didn't just dissolve; it transformed. It became fuel.
She looked up from her phone, her gaze locking onto Bianca's. Her smile was so bright, so full of a sweet, dangerous confidence, that it made the Siren Queen flinch. Without breaking eye contact, Enid turned to the bookie.
"Kent," she said, her voice clear and ringing in the silence. She pulled a ten-dollar bill from her pocket. "Put me down for ten. On the smile."
A collective gasp went through the crowd. Kent stared at her, then at Bianca, then back at her, a slow grin spreading across his own face. "You got it, Sinclair."
Enid took her receipt, her hand steady. She looked back at Bianca, her smile never wavering. "I've always been a fan of the longshots," she said sweetly.
She turned, leaving Bianca stunned and speechless, and began typing a reply to Gabriel, her thumbs flying across the screen.
Enid: Just put my money where my mouth is. Don't make me lose ten bucks, Beoulve.
Yoko just shook her head as she fell into step beside her, a small, reluctant, and deeply impressed smile on her own lips. "You are in so much trouble."
"I know," Enid said, her heart soaring. "Isn't it great?"
Gabriel's POV – Sunday, September 5th, 2021 (Late Afternoon)
The afternoon was quiet. Gabriel sat in the worn armchair by the window of his dorm room, a thick book on medieval history resting unread in his lap.
The chaotic energy of the morning had faded, leaving a pleasant, quiet warmth in its wake. Ajax was on his own bed, headphones on, meticulously polishing a large, beautiful piece of amethyst, the soft rasp of the cloth a gentle, rhythmic counterpoint to the silence.
Gabriel wasn't brooding. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the quiet in his mind was not an empty, echoing void, but a comfortable, peaceful space.
He kept replaying the morning's text exchange with Enid, a small, secret smile touching his lips. Her ability to take a moment of public humiliation and turn it into a shared, silly conspiracy was a superpower more impressive than any psychic vision or siren's song. She didn't just live in the light; she created it, pulling him into its warmth with an effortless gravity.
He was content to just sit, to exist in this new, peaceful state. He didn't need to do anything, to be anywhere. The thought of her was enough.
His phone buzzed softly on the nightstand beside him. He reached for it, a familiar, pleasant jolt of anticipation in his chest.
Enid Sinclair 🐺✨: Emergency. I am in mortal combat with this glitter. It is a wily and evasive foe. I may require backup.
Enid Sinclair 🐺✨: [Image attached: A picture of her desk, which looked like a unicorn had exploded. The black foam board was visible, along with a few pieces of gravitas-gray paper, but everything was coated in a fine, shimmering layer of dark blue glitter. Her rainbow-painted fingernails, also covered in glitter, were visible at the edge of the frame, giving a desperate-looking thumbs-up.]
Enid Sinclair 🐺✨: Send help. And snacks.
He let out a quiet laugh, the sound startling in the silent room. Ajax looked up from his rock, a questioning look on his face. Gabriel just shook his head and typed a reply.
Gabriel: It appears your tactical deployment has gone awry.
Enid Sinclair 🐺✨: AWRY?! GABRIEL, THIS IS A DISASTER ZONE. A SPARKLY, BEAUTIFUL DISASTER ZONE, BUT A DISASTER NONETHELESS.
Gabriel: Hold your position. I will bring reinforcements.
He stood, a real, honest-to-goodness smile on his face. The thought of going to her, of sitting in her room and helping her wrangle a glitter explosion, was the best offer he'd had all year.
He grabbed his coat, a feeling of light, easy happiness settling over him. This was his new normal. Quiet moments, punctuated by sunbeams.
He was walking out the door when there was a sharp, official-sounding knock.
He opened the door to find a nervous-looking freshman, a boy with gills he recognized from one of his classes, holding a stiff, cream-colored envelope.
"Uh, for Gabriel Beoulve?" the boy stammered. "From Principal Weems's office."
Gabriel took the envelope, a cold knot of anxiety instantly forming in his gut. It was heavy, made of thick cardstock, and sealed with the official Nevermore wax seal. "Thank you," he said, his voice suddenly rough.
The boy just nodded and practically fled down the hallway.
Gabriel closed the door, his heart beginning a slow, heavy drumbeat. He broke the seal with a trembling thumb. It wasn't a summons for expulsion. It was a simple, typed note.
Mr. Beoulve, A package has arrived for you. Please retrieve it from my office at your earliest convenience. - L. Weems
A package. The relief was so potent it almost made him dizzy. It was just a package. His father. Maybe… maybe it was a care package.
Books, maybe. Or new strings for his cello. The thought sent a flicker of warmth through him, chasing away the initial chill.
He quickly texted Enid.
Gabriel: Detour. Have to pick something up from the main office. Meet you at your room in thirty.
The walk to Principal Weems's office was quiet. Weems sat behind her massive desk, a collection of taxidermied birds staring down at him with glassy eyes. She gestured to a heavy, medium-sized wooden crate on the floor.
"Mr. Beoulve," she said, her voice cool and professional, but her eyes, he noticed, held a flicker of something else. Pity? Concern?
"This arrived for you this morning." She paused, her gaze steady. "Nevermore is a sanctuary, Mr. Beoulve. For all its students. We have resources, should you ever find yourself in need of them." She looked from him to the crate. "Remember that."
It was a strange, cryptic statement, an offer of a life raft for a storm he hadn't known was coming. "Thank you, Principal Weems," he said, easily lifting the crate. It was heavier than it looked.
The walk back to Caliban Hall was slower. Weems's words echoed in his mind. The crate felt cold against his hands. There was no return address, just his name, printed in a stark, impersonal font. This wasn't a care package.
Gabriel's POV – Sunday, September 5th,
He got back to his room to find it empty. Ajax was gone. A small blessing. He placed the crate on the floor in the center of the room and stared at it. It was a simple, unadorned wooden box, held shut with a series of small, metal clasps. His hands felt cold as he knelt and began to undo them. The click of each clasp was unnervingly loud in the silent room. He lifted the lid.
The warmth that had filled his chest for the past week was extinguished in an instant, as if doused with ice water.
The box was lined with dark, velvet-like foam, with perfectly cut-out sections for each item. It was not a gift. It was a kit. A cage.
The first thing he saw were the restraints. They were new, the black leather polished to a high sheen, the silver inlays gleaming coldly in the dim light of the dorm room. They were thicker than his old set, the buckles heavier, more severe. He reached out a trembling hand and touched one. The leather was cold and unyielding. The silver felt like a brand against his skin.
Beside them, nestled in its own compartment, was a sterile-looking, silver medical case. His hands shook as he opened it. Inside, on a bed of pristine white silk, lay a large-bore, steel syringe, its needle thick and wicked-looking.
Next to it, in a neat, clinical row, were three glass vials filled with a thick, dark, almost black liquid. The wolfsbane sedative. A dose strong enough to fell a creature three times his size, to plunge the beast into a black, dreamless stupor.
And underneath it all, a single, folded piece of paper. He picked it up. The note was typed. There was no greeting, no signature. Just three lines of stark, black text.
15 days.
Be disciplined.
Do not be a disappointment.
Gabriel knelt on the cold stone floor of his dorm room, the open crate before him a testament to his father's love. It was not the love of a parent for a son. It was the love of a zookeeper for a dangerous, unpredictable animal. It was the cold, practical care of a warden for his prisoner.
He thought of Enid's bright, easy laughter. He thought of her hands, small and warm, lacing with his in the moonlight. He thought of her last text, of the silly, sparkling emoji that had made him smile just minutes ago. That boy, the one who smiled, was a lie. A temporary fiction.
This was the truth. The restraints. The needle. The curse.
He carefully closed the medical case, the click of the latch echoing the sound of his own heart shutting down. He placed it back in its velvet coffin. He folded the note and put it back. He closed the heavy wooden lid of the crate. He pushed it under his bed, hiding the evidence, burying the truth.
Xavier was wrong. Yoko was right. He was a monster. And this was his cage.
His phone buzzed on the desk. He flinched, the sound a violent intrusion into his new, cold silence. He knew who it was. The thought of her, of her light, of her warmth, was a physical pain. He couldn't face her. Not now. Not when the truth of what he was felt like a fresh, open wound. How could he sit in her colorful, happy space and help her with glitter when he had just been reminded of the cold silver that would soon bind his wrists?
He walked over to the phone. The screen was bright, an insult to the gloom that had descended upon the room.
Enid Sinclair 🐺✨: Heeeeeey, where are my reinforcements?? The glitter is winning! ✨
He stared at the message, at the cheerful, sparkling emoji. A wave of self-loathing so profound it made him nauseous washed over him. She deserved sunbeams and K-pop songs and friends who weren't counting down to the day they would become a mindless, raging beast.
He couldn't tell her the truth. He couldn't lie and pretend everything was okay. He had to build a wall. A clean, cold, and immediate wall. For her own good.
His fingers, feeling like clumsy, foreign objects, typed out a reply. It was the cruelest, most honest thing he could do.
Gabriel: Something came up. I can't make it. Sorry.
He hit send. Then, he turned the phone over, placing it screen-down on the desk, plunging his world back into darkness.
Enid's POV – Sunday, September 5th, 2021
Enid's dorm room was a glittering, chaotic masterpiece. The massive black foam board was propped up on her desk, a dark, waiting void. Pieces of gravitas-gray paper were arranged in a preliminary layout. Her metallic pens were lined up like soldiers, ready for battle. And a fine, shimmering layer of night-sky-blue glitter coated… well, everything. It was on her desk, her floor, her sweater, and somehow, on Wolfert, who sat on her bed, a silent, sparkling supervisor.
She was in a state of pure, unadulterated bliss. The day had been perfect. The public victory over Bianca, the secret, shared jokes with Gabriel via text, the giddy anticipation of him coming over. Reinforcements. The word echoed in her head, making her smile so wide her face ached. He was coming. To her room.
To help her with her beautiful, sparkly disaster. She had just sent the "glitter is winning" text, her heart a happy, buzzing hummingbird in her chest as she waited for his reply.
The phone buzzed on the desk. She snatched it up, a giggle already bubbling in her throat, expecting a witty, deadpan response.
Gabriel Beoulve 🐺✨: Something came up. I can't make it. Sorry.
Enid stared at the message. The words were black and white and starkly simple. They made no sense. It was like reading a sentence in a language she didn't understand.
She read it again. And again, her mind refusing to process the cold, impersonal finality of it.
The happy, buzzing warmth in her chest fizzled out, extinguished as if doused with ice water.
Something came up. I can't make it. Sorry.
It was so cold. So brief. So… unlike him. It wasn't the Gabriel she had been texting all day, the boy whose dry humor was a secret language just for them. It wasn't the boy who had smiled at her in the library or held her hand in the moonlight.
This was a text from a stranger. The stranger from the first day, the one everyone was afraid of.
A cold, sick feeling began to coil in her stomach, tight and painful. She sank onto her bed, her gaze unfocused, the glitter on her desk mocking her with its cheerful sparkle.
What did I do?
The question was a whisper at first, then a scream that echoed in the sudden, roaring silence of her own mind. She scrolled up with a trembling thumb, re-reading their last exchange, searching for her mistake. Her texts were bubbly, full of caps lock and emojis.
Too much? Had she been too much? Too loud, too bright, too… Enid? He had seemed to like it. She had thought he liked it.
The way he'd joked back about the betting pool, the way he'd promised reinforcements.
Had she been wrong? Had it all been a lie?
Was the glitter text too much? Was the picture of the mess too chaotic? Did I sound too demanding? Did I scare him off?
Her core insecurity, the one she had thought he had soothed, the one that whispered you are too much, you are not right, began to rear its ugly head. Her mother's voice, cold and disappointed, echoed in her mind. You need to learn to be less… vibrant, Enid. It can be overwhelming for people.
"No," she whispered to the empty room, shaking her head as if to dislodge the thought, tears beginning to blur the fairy lights strung above her bed. "No, he's not like that. He wouldn't… He wouldn't just do that."
The panic shifted, morphing into a wave of pure, cold fear. The package. He had gone to get a package. What was in it? Was it bad news? Was his father sick? Was he sick? The rumors, the dark whispers she had so bravely ignored, slithered back into her thoughts.
Savage. Dangerous. Uncontrolled. Had something happened?
"Okay, you've been staring at your wall for twenty minutes and you haven't moved a muscle. And you stopped humming." Yoko's voice cut through the fog, startling her. Her best friend was standing in the doorway, a bag of blood in her hand, her head tilted with a look of genuine concern. "That's how I know it's serious. What happened? Did the glitter finally overwhelm you?"
Enid couldn't find the words. She just held out her phone, her hand trembling.
Yoko walked over, her usual languid grace replaced by a sense of urgency. She took the phone and read the short, brutal message. Her expression hardened. The cynical, sarcastic mask dropped away, replaced by the cold, dangerous fury of a vampire whose best friend had just been hurt.
"That's it?" Yoko asked, her voice dangerously quiet. "After the whole day, after you told me he was different, that's all he sent?"
"Something must have happened," Enid said, her own voice a weak, trembling thing. "He was fine, and then he went to get a package from Weems, and now… this. What if he's hurt, Yoko? What if something bad happened?"
"Or what if he's a jerk?" Yoko shot back, her protective anger flaring. "What if this is what he does? He draws you in, makes you think he's different, and then he just… cuts you off. Because he's a broody, emotionally constipated monster who can't handle a single ounce of genuine human—or werewolf—connection."
"Don't say that," Enid whispered, the tears finally welling in her eyes and spilling over. "He's not like that."
"Isn't he?" Yoko's voice softened as she sat on the bed, her anger melting away into a deep, profound sympathy.
She put a cool, steadying hand on Enid's shoulder. "Enid, I want to be wrong. I really, truly do. But this… this is a classic move. He's building a wall. And you're going to break your heart trying to climb it."
"But why?" Enid cried, the first tear tracing a path through the stray glitter on her cheek, making it look like she was crying starlight. "Everything was so… perfect."
"I don't know," Yoko said honestly, wrapping a comforting arm around her. "Maybe something really did happen. Or maybe… maybe he's exactly who everyone says he is."
She paused, her voice turning firm. "Do you want me to go find him? I will. I will go to Caliban Hall right now and demand an explanation."
Enid thought about it for a split second, the idea of having Yoko fight her battles a comforting thought. But she shook her head, wiping at her eyes. "No," she said, her voice stronger than she felt. "No, if he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me."
Yoko just nodded, giving her shoulder a squeeze.
Enid didn't reply. She just stared at her half-finished, beautiful project board, the metallic silver title shimmering in the dim light. It was supposed to be a symbol of their partnership, their new beginning. Now, it just looked like a monument to a promise that had been broken before it was even made.
Gabriel's POV – Monday, September 6th, 2021 (Before Dawn)
Gabriel woke with a gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs, the phantom feeling of cold leather on his wrists and the sweet, cloying smell of wolfsbane in his throat. A nightmare. Or a memory. Or a prophecy.
He sat up in the pre-dawn gloom of his dorm room, his breathing ragged. He didn't need to look. He could feel its presence. The crate, a dark, heavy shape under his bed, a coffin for the boy he had pretended to be for a week.
14 days. The number was a brand on his soul.
He swung his legs out of bed, the cold stone floor a welcome, grounding shock.
The warmth was gone. The easy happiness, the quiet contentment—all of it had been burned away, leaving only the cold, familiar ash of his reality. He was not a boy. He was a cage. And the thing inside the cage was counting down the days until it could tear itself free.
His decision from last night, made in a haze of self-loathing and terror, felt even more brutally necessary in the cold light of morning. The wall he had started building with that single, cruel text had to be reinforced. It had to be made of stone and steel and ice. It had to be high enough that she would never, ever be able to climb it. For her own good.
He moved through his morning ritual, but the grace was gone. The forms were no longer a meditative dance; they were a brutal, punishing act of self-flagellation. Every strike was a reminder of the violence he was capable of. Every controlled breath was a lie, a thin veneer over the raging chaos in his blood.
This is who you are, he told himself with every movement. A monster. A disappointment.
He pulled on his usual armor—the worn, black leather jacket that suddenly felt less like a choice and more like a uniform. It was a shield. A warning.
"Dude," Xavier's voice mumbled from the other bed, thick with sleep. "It's, like, five in the morning. What's with all the… broody stomping? Did the ghosts in the Séance Society give you a bad review?"
Gabriel didn't answer. He just continued to get dressed, his movements clipped and efficient.
Xavier sat up, rubbing his eyes, his psychic senses clearly starting to prickle through his sleep-fog. "Whoa. Okay." He went very still, his gaze becoming unfocused for a moment as he clearly tuned into the emotional atmosphere of the room. "What happened? Your whole… aura… it's gone gray. It's like a block of concrete." He looked at Gabriel, his eyes wide with a genuine, dawning alarm.
"Gabriel? What's wrong? Did something happen with your dad? The package?"
"Nothing," Gabriel said, his voice flat and cold.
"Don't you 'nothing' me," Xavier shot back, getting out of bed now, fully awake. "Yesterday you were practically glowing. Now you look like you did the day you got here. No, worse. What happened after I left last night?"
"I'm fine, Xavier."
"No, you're not!" Xavier's voice was rising, a mixture of frustration and fear. He took a step closer, his hands held up in a placating gesture. "Talk to me, man. Whatever it is, we can figure it out."
"There's nothing to figure out," Gabriel said, turning to face him, his expression a mask of pure, cold indifference. He had to do this. He had to push them all away. It was the only way to be safe. To keep them safe. "It's none of your business."
The hurt on Xavier's face was a physical blow, a fresh wound on top of his own self-inflicted agony. But Gabriel forced himself not to flinch.
He saw Ajax sit up in his own bed, his expression confused and worried, clutching his pillow.
"Gabe?" Ajax's voice was a small, hesitant question.
Gabriel's resolve almost cracked. But then he thought of the crate under his bed. He thought of what he would become in fourteen days.
They couldn't be near him then. It was better to cut them off now. It was a mercy.
"Just… leave it alone," Gabriel said, his voice a low warning. He grabbed his bag, his gaze fixed on the floor, and walked out, leaving his two best friends standing in a stunned, wounded silence. The first bricks of his wall were in place. And it was already agony.
Enid's PoV
The walk to Dr. Harker's class was the longest of Enid's life. Yoko walked beside her, a silent, dark-clad bodyguard, her presence a comforting, if grim, anchor. Enid had spent the entire night replaying every moment they had ever shared, searching for the clue she must have missed, the warning sign that this was all just a lie. She found nothing. Only warmth, and quiet smiles, and the ghost of his hand in hers.
"He'll be there," Enid whispered, more to herself than to Yoko, as they approached the classroom. "And it'll be fine. I'll ask him what happened, and he'll have a totally reasonable explanation, and we'll laugh about how I was so worried. It'll be fine."
"And if it's not fine?" Yoko asked gently, her voice devoid of its usual sarcasm. "Then I'll help you TP his side of the dorm room. I know a guy who can get us enchanted toilet paper that screams."
The absurd offer made Enid crack a small, watery smile. "Thanks, Yoko."
"Anytime," her friend said, giving her shoulder a squeeze before heading off to her own class.
Enid walked into the lecture hall, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She saw their spot. The two seats in the third row, an island of potential. She practically ran to it, claiming her chair and placing her bag pointedly on the empty seat beside her. His seat. She saved his spot.
She sat there, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles were white, her leg bouncing with a nervous energy that felt more like a vibration than a movement. She watched the door, her eyes scanning every student who walked in, her heart leaping with a painful jolt every time she saw a flash of dark hair.
The room filled up around her. The usual pre-class chatter was a dull, meaningless roar. The minutes ticked by, each one a slow, agonizing turn of a knife. The bell was going to ring. He was going to be late. Or maybe he wasn't coming at all. The thought sent a wave of pure, cold panic through her.
And then, just as the final warning bell began to chime, he walked in.
A wave of pure, unadulterated relief so potent it almost made her weep washed over her. He's here. He's okay. It's all okay.
He paused at the door, his gaze sweeping the room. And then his eyes met hers.
For a single, breathtaking second, she saw it. A flash of pure, raw, undisguised agony in his eyes. A look of such profound pain and regret that it stole the breath from her lungs. It was the look of the boy who had played the cello for her, the sad, lonely soul behind the walls.
He's hurting.
And then, it was gone.
A mask of cold, blank indifference slammed down, so sudden and complete it was like a physical blow. His face was a fortress. His eyes, which had looked at her with such warmth and amusement just yesterday, were now the eyes of a stranger—flat, cold, and utterly empty.
She watched, her heart shattering in slow motion, as he deliberately, pointedly, turned his head. He looked away from her, away from their spot, and began to walk down the aisle on the far side of the room. He chose a seat in the back row, in the corner, as far away from her as he could possibly get. He sat down, opened his book, and did not look at her again.
The seat beside her remained empty.
It was a chasm. A void. A public declaration, shouted in the most brutal, devastating silence she had ever known. The students who had been watching the "show" all week now stared, their whispers a fresh wave of humiliation. The betting pool odds were probably shifting at this very moment.
Dr. Harker's voice began the lecture, but the words were a distant, meaningless drone. The world had gone blurry, the vibrant colors of her own notebooks bleeding into a gray, watery haze. She stared at the empty seat, at the space where he was supposed to be, a physical symbol of the new, gaping hole in her own chest.
She had been wrong. Yoko had been right. It wasn't a misunderstanding. It wasn't a crisis.
It was a wall. And he had just bricked her out.