ᴀᴅ ᴍᴇʟɪᴏʀᴀ ~ ᴅᴘꜱ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴋꜱ)

{ epilogue }

"Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And, when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal
And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From that gap in the air
And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time."

- Final Stanza, For Grief
By John O'Donohue

Where does a story end: At the conclusion of the plot, or when there's nobody else willing to listen?

Steven Meeks returned to his dorm at Welton Academy on January 4th, 1960. He was greeted by the remaining dwindle of his friends: Knox, Pitts, and (formerly) Cameron. Charlie was expelled, Todd withdrew, and, well...

It took weeks for Meeks to move on— but he had done it. The ache of absence was still there, I assure you, seeping in from every plank and brick within Founders Hall, but now it was manageable. He'd almost slipped a tear passing the Captain's old classroom, but he held it back nevertheless.

There was one more thing that greeted him: A letter, crammed into its envelope and hastily addressed to him, sitting on the floor just inside his door.

Steven would neglect to read it until the following night, looking for a way to fight off the soured memories of his years at the school.

Another thing troubled his mind: the state he'd left his and Ivy's relationship in. He hadn't been able to get in touch with her or Amy before leaving and didn't have much luck over break either. The compounding pile of unfinished business troubled his mind, so, the following night, he gave in and read the mysterious letter to distract himself.

The contents of the letter, as you could imagine, didn't offer much solace.

-

Of course Amy went against Ivy's wishes and read the letter. Is that even a question?

She'd felt bad about it immediately after she read the last line. Something about indulging in praises you were never meant to hear felt... especially intrusive to her. After that, it sat on her desk for most of break. She'd envelope, address, and stamp it eventually, despite planning to hand-deliver it, but until then, it was nothing more than an eyesore and constantly-reopening wound on her desk.

Amy wasn't too satisfied with hers and Ivy's goodbye either, although for different reasons. She found it hard not to blame Ivy for her withdrawal until the guilt finally shifted onto herself. Ivy hadn't shared too much about her life pre-junior year, aside from her friendship with Beatrice, but Amy was certain it wouldn't have led to this point without her selfish interference. It just felt good to finally have someone who tolerated her, liked her even. Someone who wouldn't leave at the first sign of choppy water. Ivy wouldn't have abandoned ship; she would have simply tightened her life vest and held on harder.

Instead, she was gone, from Meeks, Amy, and everyone else, and Amy could only blame herself.

-

Ivy was strong on the cab ride to the train station, and then on the car ride home. Her room was exactly how she'd left it the summer before, only now swathed in a layer of dust. Her hard exterior never wavered, not even as her parents outlined their strict limits on her phone usage and the chance of her reaching anyone at the school dipped lower and lower. She never cracked; she refused to give them, specifically her father, the satisfaction of knowing they'd hurt her.