poeta nascitur, non fit ~ steven meeks x fem!reader

EPILOGUE ~ ii.

Similarly to Cameron, (y/n) didn't think very much about Knox. Briefly, in his last letter, Charlie had mentioned that Knox and Chris had recently split off, for reasons unclear to him. But (y/n) had a feeling Chris finally came to realize that her lover was not really who she thought he was.

And Steven Meeks?

Well, (y/n) wasn't very sure about him. Out of all of her lovely friends, she'd written and called him less than originally planned out. For a while, at the start, they had their weekly over-the-phone date nights - reflecting on their days and telling each other stories. 

Then, slowly, the letters and calls stopped - both teenagers having too much academic work on their plates to pursue romance. And then that summer before graduation year, (y/n) flew down, invited by Mr. Perry to spend a week with his family and a few of her friends. 

That was awkward, she recalled with a wistful smile on her face. It was nice, to see him again and revisit their Dead Poets Society traditions even if their numbers were infinitely smaller than what they were used to before it all fell apart that fateful December. 

Seeing him there, in person and not just hearing his voice - it was all she'd dreamed of for months. She'd packed a perfect summer wardrobe, dolled herself up and made sure to bring his favorite books so that they could read together. 

And yet, it still felt - off. He'd grown so much - his jawline was sharper now, and he carried with him an air of confidence she'd never seen before. Now, his last name didn't quite fit who he was. It was a little intimidating, seeing how he'd changed so much - but it did not change her admiration and feelings for him. 

It was incredible, to have borne witness to how he grew up. Even if she'd only seen his handwriting and heard his laughter, until that summer. 

Come to think of it, she was not even certain of what university he was attending, or how his summer break had went, or exams, or anything from the past few months. 

She'd sent him a letter before the summer holidays, to his Welton address, and his response had never come to her mother's flat in London. 

Although, who's to say it never existed? 

That's what she'd been telling herself all these weeks; that perhaps the letter had gotten mixed up, sent to the wrong address, or maybe ruined en route to its destination. 

Time and time again, she told herself it wasn't that he'd stopped thinking of her.

The psychologist study books she had on her bookshelf had said that repeating certain mantras causes them to become your reality, but she began to have her doubts about its truth.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The broad, stone façade of Cornell loomed over her as they stepped out of the cab, hauling various suitcases and boxes - and a cardboard flat of her little plant babies. 

Her mother shut the door and grabbed a laundry basket of linens before beaming that loving smile at her daughter.

"Are you ready, honey?" she asked tentatively, able to tell her daughter was in fact, quite anxious in the presence of scholars - real, actual scholars who study literature and classics and ancient languages. 

(y/n) took a deep breath before replying. "Definitely not." Her laughter rang out, amidst the overlapping layers of chatter and goodbyes from parents to their beloved children. Mr. Keating put an arm around her shoulders, in the wonderful fatherly best friend way of his.