[completed] Nova Carter knows exactly what the next few years of her life will look like: she will work harder than anyone else (as she didn't get into New York University to slack off); she'll be keeping her head down and prioritizing getting her a...
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Chapter Thirty-two | Skinny Love ♫Skinny Love by Bon Iver
I did a lot of tearwiping as I said goodbye to Sofia and my parents last week. It's always strange to be in that period of time between one holiday and the next, especially when you're alone during the dark months for the first time.
Things are solidifying. Ramona's stay, first of all— she's settled in Atlas' building. Olivia's still gone most of the day, but to be fair, so are her books. I'm sure she's seen every corner of the library by now. I haven't heard much of Logan, but I've heard about him from Flynn. His Dad had 'a talk' with him, that was all.
As for Milo, he's excited, I think. I mean, I've been avoiding him ever since my little realization at the Rockefeller Center. The reasonable part of my brain keeps telling me how stupid that is and how I should make the most of the time I have with him before he's gone, but the mere idea makes my stomach turn. He's always so attentive. I can't even look him in the eyes.
My family leaving seems to have left me feeling hollower than before. I truthfully didn't like being with my parents again, now that I know what it's like to be without them, but it's overwhelming now that they're gone. I don't know what they think of me. It didn't sound like their opinion of me changed at any point.
Logan's opinion of me did change. I still think about that night in the bathroom at Fresco's more than I should, and every time I do my entire body tenses up and my heart beats faster. It almost feels like panicking. I hate that he thinks of me in the way he does. I hate that he's right to do so.
And I hate that the world doesn't stop turning when I need it to. I feel nauseaous most of the day and my legs are tired as if I'm endlessly running after people or endlessly running away from them. It's embarrassing.
Ever since my grades lowered, it's been significantly harder putting in the work I know I should be putting in. Other classes have started and I even have an elective, but all I can figure is that my effort doesn't really seem to matter. If I barely pass when working like crazy, what's the point? Professor Stew knew what to blame. It's inconvenient that the blame lies with the one thing I can't change.
The Moses Center— what I previously called the administration building— stands high and tall as it welcomes me on a Tuesday afternoon. The server of their email and website is down, which means that I have to physically go to the office to hand in my request for some aids I'll be needing during my midterms in January. There seemed to be something missing in the one Hyde handed in for me in the beginning of the year, so I had to go through the process again.
"Next."
I step forward with heavy legs and lay the sheet of paper on the flat surface of the front desk. The edges are crumpled thanks to my tensed fingers, and my hands are too spastic today to even try and smooth them down. They just return to their 'resting' state: tightly held fists.
