Chapter Forty-two | Back for More
♫ Back for More by Nia Hendricks
It's strange to be back in the dining hall, the morning of the orientation day of Hyde's group, which he's decided to name Beyond Limits Student Association, or BLSA for short.
Unfortunately, he also reported that since it's a student association, most of the responsibilities of organizing the meetings and such have to fall onto an actual student, and he can no longer be the chairman. He will be our faculty advisor going forward.
Knowing him, this won't mean he's less active or involved. And I'm glad it doesn't. Hyde has become the face of our little meetings and he's hauled me through this year, even if he isn't very aware of it and insists on crediting anyone but himself.
"Are you nervous?"
Logan puts my tray of breakfast foods on the table and sits next to me with his own as Olivia takes a seat across from us.
Up until now, I've been doing pretty good. The speech was nothing but a scary thing somewhere in the distance— but then, in the middle of the night, I woke up and realized it was the morning of, and I haven't been able to relax since.
"You could say that," I say, eyeing the food he selected for me. A stack of waffles, a cup of fruit, a salad and a vanilla latte with a straw in it. It all looks great, but I cannot consume anything right now.
Logan nudges the coffee closer to me. "It will be fine, you just need to get something in your system."
"Do you know what my system consists of right now?" I ask him and Olivia, who's watching me as if I'm a ticking timebomb. "Terror."
He laughs, the sound escaping him as if he can't really help it. "Just eat, Nov."
I begrudgingly spoon some melon into my mouth, sulking in my seat. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad if I could at least relax a little, but my body is stuck today. It's like one of those phone stands with six slots, that you can pull from one slot to another, but nothing in between. My joints have slots today, and everything is difficult.
"We've decided that you just need something to look forward to after your speech," Olivia announces.
"Like what?"
"We... haven't actually thought of that," Logan grimaces. "Just know that something's definitely coming while we figure out what."
When I think of what would be a nice surprise, I can only think of one thing.
But it's been confirmed that Milo's not coming. As I knew he wouldn't. He's at this three-week photography retreat in Venice with a friend he made through his mother, which I know because it's all he posts about on his socials.
I briefly thought about telling him last night, when I was so restless in my bed. I even went as far as to call him and say hi, and then I heard the sound of laughter and water splashing on his side of the line and the sound of the smile in his voice, and I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring my negativity into his happy environment. I couldn't think of pulling him away from so much laughter.
"You being there is enough," I say, inhaling sharply. "Thank you for coming out tonight."
Olivia and Logan smile at me as if they know what is going through my head, with a little bit of sympathy and a little bit of encouragement.
I finish the fruit and a bit of the waffles, and then I stand from my seat.
"You're leaving already?" Olivia asks.
I nod. "Hyde asked us to be early to help prep and meet the guest speakers."
"That's good. It'll distract you," says Logan optimistically.
I throw my head back and grunt, dragging my feet behind me as I walk. I don't even have the room to be nervous about everyone in this dining hall looking at me. It's sort of symbolic. When you're walking to your own suffering, the walk itself seems like heaven, regardless of how hard it is.
The Moses Center is all decorated by the time I arrive. Purple banners hang on the walls and on the doors, spelling out BLSA and well wishes. There are booths everywhere, serving drinks in mugs so they're easy to hold and food in ceramic bowls, so that it won't fall off when you walk. The mugs were my idea.
Hyde asked me what it would be like, in that email he sent me, if I'd had something like this when I first got to NYU. At this point, it feels like ages ago.
I didn't have a mug. I had Milo Macarevich serving me lemonade in a plastic cup I couldn't hold.
At the time, I felt humiliated taking it from him, dropping the drink in front of everyone and having to ask him for help, but looking back now, I can attest to the fact that it changed my life for the better. If they had mugs, I would've felt like I was fitting in more. But I wouldn't be where I am now.
My entire life, this lack of coordination and bodily control, my tightness and my spasms have felt like they were ruining me. They were the reason I tired out easily and nobody had ever been interested in me, whether romantically or platonically. They took away any understanding people could have for me and instead made me an outcast.
And then I got to college and they nudged me closer to Milo. They led me straight to Jordan Hyde and his Monday afternoon meetings. To that party where I met Atlas and that lunchdate where I met everyone else.
There have been countless what ifs in my head, ones I idealized and sought after despite knowing they'd never come true— but for the first time, I don't want to know.
I want this life. I want these people in it.
I find doctor Hyde in our weekly meeting room. He's carrying Suvi, his daughter, on his back as he talks to his wife, Jo. For a second, I contemplate leaving them be, but then think they'd appreciate me letting them know I'm here.
"Hi, guys," I say, moving into the space.
Hyde and Jo look up, smiles adorning their faces when they catch sight of me. I didn't officially meet Jo at Suvi's dance recital, but she knew we were there.
"Honey, this is Nova," Hyde says to her.
Jo approaches me with open arms and pulls me into a warm embrace. "Nova," she emphasizes. "I've heard so many good things about you! What a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Likewise," I grin.
Jo pulls back, but keeps her hands on my elbows. "How are you feeling? I heard you'll pretty much be the main attraction tonight."
"Oh, gosh, did doctor Hyde say that?" I ask with an awkward chuckle, stealing a glance at my counselor who gives me a sheepish smile.
Jo shakes her head. "Don't even worry about it. If what I've heard about you from my husband is true, there's no way your speech won't be an absolute success."
I appreciate the way Jo talks to me, as if she's known me for ages. She says everything with such calmth and friendliness that I can't help but (slightly) believe in it.
She moves to take Suvi from her husband. "We'll go get some snacks," she announces, giving Hyde an undecipherable look before she goes. I can hear Suvi say something about breadsticks when they're around the corner.
"So?" Hyde asks, letting himself fall onto one of the sofas. I follow his example. "You never did answer her question. How are you?"
"I can't think too much about it or my legs will turn to jelly," I tell him.
He smiles, shaking his head. "I know the right thing for me to say right now is that you can do it and shouldn't worry about it, but if not thinking about it helps..."
I appreciate that, too.
"Who have you invited?" Hyde asks, changing the subject. "Family, friends?"
I don't know whether to nod or shake my hand. "My roommate, my friends and my brother are coming."
"Not your parents?"
To be honest, the thought hasn't even crossed my mind. "Maybe this is weird to say, but I wouldn't want my parents here."
Hyde's eyebrows shoot up. He sits forward, resting his elbows onto his knees. "Really? How so?"
"I don't know," I say, picking at my Milo jeans. "For some reason, everything here feels completely separate from them. I first noticed it at Thanksgiving. I didn't like riding the subway or walking down the street or being in my dorm with them there."
"Do you know why, or was it just a feeling you had?"
"I know my parents have an idea of me and an ideal version of me. And they have certain goals for me that I'm no longer working towards. I think it would offend them, and I don't want to invite that into my life when I'm finally so happy with where I am."
I can tell he wants to ask more about it but doesn't. "Sound like you've thought it through," he says. "In any way, Nova, relationships are complicated. Choosing not to share certain aspects of your life is not something you should feel bad about."
I keep my head down, silently taking it all in.
"Speaking of sharing..." Hyde whips back onto his two feet. "People are starting to trickle in. We have to go and assemble the group."
"For one last meeting?"
"Sort of," he says mischieveously.
I follow him outside again, to where he rounds up every member of our newfound student association. By now, the Moses Center has indeed started to buzz— high school aged students fill the spaces accompanied by their parents and mobility aids, along with older-looking students that know each other already, clearly NYU enrolled.
Hyde leads us to where he pulls the sheet off of what looks like a confessional, hidden away in a corner of which I know plant previously inhabited it.
"What's this?" Rashad pipes up, drawing out the words. "You... do know I'm Muslim, right?"
"Yes. I do know that," Hyde says quickly, throwing up his hands. "I realize this looks weird out of context, so let me explain."
We watch him reach behind the confessional, pulling out a DIY 'come on in!' sign you'd see at the entrance of some occult tent at a festival. Then, a chalkboard he kicks at so that it stands by its own.
"The whole point of this student association is talking. Jo and I were discussing how we really want people to get the gist of it, you know? Have a taste of what it would be like. So, we had the idea of a confessional. You guys will sit behind the screen in shifts and people who want to ask for advice or share their worries can do so, just like they'd do at our meetings, without the embarrassment or barrier of having to do it face to face."
"We have to sit behind the screen?" Emmy echoes.
"I can't force you if you don't want to," Hyde tells her. "But it would be really great if you would. Even just for fifteen minutes."
"I like the idea," I pipe up.
The group turns to me, their eyes questioning. I continue. "I really do."
Hyde smiles happily, opening the door at a side. "Would you like to go first?"
I can't help but think about his email again. There's laughter and joy and curiosity all around us, but if it was me— new and scared and intimidated—, I know I'd be uncomfortable, too, even just a little. Taking on such a role is throwing myself to the wolves in a way, but it's simultaneously pulling myself out, across the bounds of time.
It's why I do it. I get into the confessional and let Hyde shut the door, telling me something about getting out if nobody comes and that I can call him if anything's the matter, and then they all walk off, leaving me there.
For a while, I bask in the fact that I'm closed off for a minute, but then I realize that I am alone with my thoughts and they're back to being about the same two things. Milo Macarevich. My speech later.
I guess I could always pretend the door to this confessional got stuck and I can't get out, and evade my speech that way. If I stay seated for long enough, Milo might catch word of it and fly back. Although, I know how far-fetched that is. I wouldn't do that.
To my surprise, once the first person slips into the other side of the confessional, business seems to pick up.
It's a guy so broad that I can hear (and feel) him knock against the sides of the little space. He tells me he's 'newly disabled', asks if that's offensive and then tells me he has parapalegia, a paralyzed lower body due to a spinal cord injury.
The second person is a girl with cone dystrophy, with a custom white cane, she tells me. She decorated it with bright pink tape because it's one of the colors she sees best. She's older than me, with twenty years of age, but I don't tell her that.
Then there's someone who tells me their name is Alex and they have Marfan Syndrome and scoliosis. They use a tall cane and, as if to prove that they aren't lying, knock it against the walls. They tell me their rib development is sunken due to their scoliosis and they regularly get cardiovascular checkups. "But it hasn't resulted in anything, yet," they say. "I'd thank God but I'm an atheist." Then they leave without saying another word.
It's quiet after that. My fifteen minutes of nothing are a few seconds shy from being over when there's a shuffle on the other side of the screen. I glance at it, catching sight of dark hair and not much else, and clamp my mouth shut. I'm surprised someone even got in after all that time.
Silence persists for another few seconds. I wonder if I should've asked Hyde for more information on what to say. Probably.
"My name is—" the voice is feminine and soft, so much so that I barely catch it even in the silence. "Should I say my name? Or... is this supposed to be anonymous?"
I decide a question is reason enough to speak up. "Whatever you're most comfortable with."
She ponders over that. "Then I think I'd rather not say it."
"That's okay."
Silence. Again. I can imagine the rough silhouette of a girl, fiddling with her hands, her mind blank. When I consider the color of her hair and the way I imagine her fingers to move, I realize that I'm almost imagining a younger version of Nova Carter. I absentmindedly sit a little straighter, cradling the answers to her questions in my arms in case she has them.
"I came here alone today," she says, her voice louder than before. "Which is... no small feat for me. I'm a bit of a homebody. I'd rather not have anyone look at me and so I just sit in my room. But I came here alone today."
I say nothing.
"I had this idea, you know. I'd come here, bump into someone, and that would be it. I'd have a friend for the next four years. I never managed to make friends before. I feel like everyone just thought I was weird, and consciously stayed away from me. And of course there are always a few nice people, but if they're not interested in their relationship with me going anywhere, you know... it doesn't."
Her story aligning with that of young Nova doesn't help with me envisioning her there. I bite down on my lips.
"Now, I'm here and I still haven't talked to anyone and I'm starting to get afraid. I want to find a connection with someone and have friends, but when I think about opening my mouth or lifting my hands, I freeze. I'm afraid of what people will think. That nobody will ever get close to me. That my disability is a barrier that'll keep people away for the rest of my life."
I grant her more silence, but she shifts. Finally, she asks another question. "I understand that this association helps, socially, but what if I want to find friends on my own, too? How did you do it? Are you... are you okay?"
The way she phrases the question leads me to believe that I might not be the only one feeling like I'm speaking to another version of myself. She's looking for assurance, but she's also awaiting a guideline.
"I'm okay," I tell her gently, letting the words sink in. I search myself for more than that. "I've found that the world, New York, is big. You can spend your entire life gathering reasons to believe that your identity is merely your disability, as if it's this huge thing hot on your heels at all times, but it's not. Your identity is fluid. To some people it'll be a student, to others it'll be a patient, to some girl you've yet to meet it'll be a roommate and a confidant. This city is so big that people will have seen stranger things than a person with a disability. In the same way that you will feel and experience greater things than however it manifests itself inside of you."
I try to think of how these words would fall upon my ears at the start of the year, whether or not I'd believe them and what they would have to be accompanied by to make them more believable.
"Do you want to know something?"
The tiniest 'yes' floats my way.
"On my first day, my hands were so shaky that I dropped a drink onto the floor. It splashed into peoples shoes and seeped into hardwood flooring and everyone knew it was me. It's the first impression I left on countless people. I was so embarrassed that it sat inside of my throat like a stone."
"Oh," she says. It's laced with something else. I don't miss the disappointment in her voice.
"I'm sure you understand how much I wanted to get away," I continue, keeping my tone light. "It felt like it would set the tone for the entire day, the entire introduction week, my time at college, even. I walked away as if my shoes were on fire. I almost wanted to run, even though my legs aren't cut out for it. But I felt guilty about the spill, so I located the guy who had handed out the drinks and told him I spilled my drink and needed the mop."
She sits in silence.
"He didn't even mind. He didn't mind that I dropped the lemonade or that I'd asked him for the mop, or that my voice was incomprehensible because I felt so guilty and humiliated. I think I sensed it, absentmindedly, because he said he'd clean the spill and I followed him instead of going on the tour, and then he asked for my name and gave me his version of the tour and invited me to a party. And during none of it did he ask about my voice or my limbs. Not once did he make a comment about my drink on the floor. The whole reason I met him was my disability, something I hated, yet it never took the foreground in our friendship. Not in a way that made me feel less than or uncomfortable."
"Then how did you tell him?" The girl asks me. "My therapist says it's important to find a moment to tell someone, but I'm bad at sensing what that moment is."
"I didn't tell him. I took him to the hospital with me when I barely knew him because I was too scared to go alone," I say sheepishly. "And, if I can be honest, I think finding a moment is a bad idea. It makes it too big in your head when it doesn't have to be. You can just slip it into conversations as if it's a side note. If they want to know more, they'll ask as lightheartedly as you have told them."
"Nothing about this is lighthearted," she mutters. I know she means, nothing about this has been light.
"I know. I wouldn't say this to you if I didn't believe it, I'm saying this to you because it's true and I can attest to that," I say. "It will be okay. After it has been hard, new and uncomfortable, it's going to be okay. You'll be sitting on the other side of this screen in a year, telling this to someone else with full conviction. You won't know how it came to be or when, you'll just know that it's okay."
Someone knocks on my door. "Shift change?" I recognize Josh's voice.
I want to tell him to wait, but on the other side of the screen the door opens and the girl slips out.
When I get out of the confessional myself, it almost feels as if the light in the Moses Center has shifted. I think of my speech, printed twice in case I lost one, and how it overlaps with what I told this anonymous girl just now. I wish I could do more than just say the words— or do something instead of saying them, but then I look out into the crowd.
If all of these new students are younger versions of myself in their own unique ways, then I must swallow my fear and recognize the worth of my experiences. Hyde was right in saying that I can mean something to someone. I wish the friendships I've crafted for all of these people.
I spend the hours leading up to my speech in a certain daze because of it. At a particular point, I know that it's almost time, because my friends are showing up and people are starting to take their seats in the auditorium. I know exactly where Atlas, Maxwell, Liz, Kaitlyn and Ramona sit; where Olivia has joined Logan, Elle and Flynn, where Isla, Emmy, Anita, Zahara, Josh and Rashad have settled in. I even see Jo and Suvi somewhere left in the front row, saving a seat for Hyde who's joined me off the side of the stage.
It comes from within me. Just like everything else. I absently see Hyde lead me up to the stage, hear him introduce me, and for the first time in my life, I take steps with my legs despite knowing full-well that people can see them.
"Would it help if we dim the lights?" I hear Hyde ask, keeping his mouth away from the mic.
I nod my head as I take the stand, my trembling hands laying my paper flat on the bookstand. The words blur together, but they come into view as the light grows softer and the chatter in the audience dies down.
I don't look at it— the audience—, basking in the silence, when something catches my eye. It's a bright, warm yellow light at the foot of the stage, flickering. It's a single candle.
It reminds me of what I've reminded my best friends of: life isn't supposed to burn like a forest fire, it's supposed to burn like a candle.
I take a deep breath, into my nose, and imagine blowing out the candle as I exhale. Then, I look up and begin.
"My name is Nova. Nova Carter. I am about to be nineteen and finish my first year at New York University. And I have cerebral palsy.
"The latter is not something I usually add when introducing myself to people. In fact, I still find myself struggling with sharing what disability I have. If I say it out of nowhere, I feel weird. If I've known someone for a while and I still haven't told them, I feel awkward. And if someone comes up to me to ask, I feel caught. Like I was doing something wrong and I had the nerve to forget.
"These meetings, the environment doctor Jordan Hyde created and nurtured, were the first place where I felt none of those things pronouncing the name of my disability. It was a little uneasy at first, because it was still new and I didn't know anyone, but from the moment I looked around at our little group, I felt an unfamiliar safety.
"Usually, safety is something I extract from my relationships with the people who know me, and are already familiar with my cerebral palsy. But now I found it in some random room at my new school in this new city — and that feeling was simply indescribable. It's a feeling of peace, mixed with this sort of cautious excitement. It was only the first meeting, yet I'd felt my relationship with my body shift.
"I never really felt in touch with my body, because I wasn't. I'm not good at controlling my hands. I think taking steps is difficult, because my legs don't like being legs very much. When I speak, it's like every word I conjure up in my head has to fight a battle to reach my lips and make its way out. Whenever I think I'm doing well, something constantly has to tremble, or tighten, or cramp. I wondered, how can I ever be confident in my body if I can't even trust it?
"As it turns out, developing confidence in something so unpredictable is a process that stretches far beyond a mere year. But it's a process that I found is fueled by love, by understanding, and by support, which brings me to the incredible journey I've had so far with the Beyond Limits Student Association."
I slightly squeeze my eyes to get a clearer view of the front row. Hyde sits at the far left, Suvi clinging to his neck as father and daughter both watch me with the utmost attention. I keep my eye on them, taking a shaky breath before continuing.
"I want to take a moment to acknowledge and express my deepest gratitude to Jordan Hyde, whose unwavering support and encouragement have been a guiding light throughout this experience. He believed in us when we struggled to believe in ourselves. He has welcomed all of us with open arms and has been dedicated to making sure nobody ever felt alone or left behind. At every turn, every injustice and every achievement, he has been at our side. I don't think he even realizes that for so many of us, he has shaped our experience at this school from an uncertain and unpredictable place, to a home. A home where we were listened to, encouraged, and even fed."
Scattered laughter ensues after the last word, all of us remembering eating sandwiches on the curb with chalk-covered hands and the tables of fruit Jo prepared for us. Hyde himself smiles, too, and I notice the light catch in his wet eyes.
I smile at him, then locate the others: Zahara, Josh and Isla next to Hyde and Suvi, Emmy and Anita clinging to each other in the second row.
"Within his association, I discovered something truly extraordinary – friends who have become my companions for life. Their disabilities may look different from mine, but the lessons they've taught me are immeasurable. We shared our stories, our triumphs and our challenges, and through it all, we formed an unbreakable bond. Each of them has shown me the strength that resides within them and myself. I've never felt more loved and supported than I have simply being in their presence, with the space to be who I am completely.
"I won't say this year has been easy. There have been moments when people didn't understand me, or even tried to, and moments where I admittedly let this discourage me. But for every person who didn't grasp the essence of who I am, I encountered five others who embraced me with love and respect. It is within those friendships and connections that I found my true community, one that accepts me for who I am, disability and all.
"All of this has taught me that life is unpredictable. It throws challenges and obstacles onto our path when we least expect them. But it is in those moments that our true strength emerges. We are defined not by the limitations imposed upon us but by the resilience we display in the face of adversity.
"When I was in your shoes, nearly a year ago now, I never would've guessed that I'd ever be at this point. At the time, I experienced everything as evidence of my incompetence, unknowingly closing myself off to the very lessons I needed to learn. I was still harboring this hope that my disability would disappear into thin air and that it would somehow change the way people looked at me.
"But the way they looked at me was not the thing requiring change. It was me. It was the way I looked at me.
"My cerebral palsy has been a constant companion—a reminder of the hurdles I face daily. But it has also been the catalyst for my growth, my determination, and so many of my best and most genuine relationships today. Somehow, it has amplified the reasons why I love the people in my life. It has encouraged honesty and openness. It has forced me to stand up for myself, to weed out the bad intentions from the good ones, and to understand and forgive in the face of what I perceive as unfairness, and someone else might perceive as a misunderstanding.
"Being a part of this student association will be a challenge, on that front. You'll be surrounded by people who openly want you to pronounce the name of your disability and are still learning the names of theirs. You won't be able to shove it away or ignore it. But you will not find a safer environment on earth to explore your identity, your disability and your views in life. You will not find a more genuine group of people, so unwilling to judge you and so eager to accept and embrace you. And you certainly won't ever find someone as supportive, fun, and paternal as doctor Hyde.
"It might feel like giving up, to sit with your disability like this and to pull it to the foreground for the first time. But take it from someone who has taken the leap and came out stronger for it: it's time to rewrite the narrative of what it means to be disabled. Maybe you won't exactly change the world, but you'll definitely change yourself. Your abilities— ourabilities, extend far beyond the physical.
That's why I hope to see you next year. Thank you."
A single beat of silence passes.
And then a deafening applause fills my ears.
I take a step back and swallow, my throat dry. The sight of nearly everybody I love, sitting there excited and supportive, comes into focus again as I crumple the sheet of paper in my trembling hands.
Hyde jumps onto the stage, giving me a bright smile and turning to the mic. I take the opportunity to slip away, nearly tripping over my own two legs.
It's definitely adrenaline, coursing through my veins and all of my muscles. There's always this sort of daze I enter when doing things I'm afraid of, one where I focus so intently on words and forming them with my mouth that everything else kind of fades away. Everything else except for the hammering of my heart, that is, inside of my chest and in my head and my throat, even.
But now it is all coming back to me, melting into view. I exit the auditorium and sit in the empty hall, taking a needed moment for myself.
All too soon, though, familiar faces burst through the doors, coming straight at me. First it's Flynn, Elle, Logan and Olivia, then they're followed by Hyde's group, and then Atlas and all of his friends appear right after.
"You did great," someone says as Elle tackles me into an embrace.
I release a nervous laugh into her blonde hair, clutching at her as if she's anchoring me back to earth.
A few embraces come after, Olivia and Logan, then Flynn, then Liz and Kaitlyn and Emmy and Isla. I'm not keeping track of who's standing there, gathered around me like a shield, but each person is familiar and kind.
"I just—" I stammer, my mind empty and uninspired. My palms are starting to clam up again, and I'm not sure what to say or how to say it. "I just want to thank you." I swallow. "I know that this speech was about the association and stuff, but... I'm grateful for all of you, too."
I find myself searching their faces, the sparkles in their eyes as they watch me and wait. It almost makes me nervous all over again, the way that they're here for me, but I push that away.
My clammy hands are searching, too. I wish they could hold onto something. I wish they could hold onto someone. Even after finishing the speech the way I intended to, despite my nerves and anxiety, despite my disobedient muscles and my ugly voice, I find myself searching.
"Here, someone's on the phone for you." It's Flynn who steps up, reaching out his phone to me.
I take it, stepping away from the group as they break into chatters. I hear Logan introduce himself to Rashad, and Atlas asking something to Isla. It's strange to think this is the first time that different people, from different aspects of my life, are meeting like this.
"You killed it!" Sofia's face is on the screen. She's grinning, my older sister in all of her sophisticated glory, with a coffeeshop as her backdrop.
"Did you watch the whole thing?" I ask, taking her outside. The sun has started to go down. In the small window in the corner of the screen, I catch a glimpse of myself drenched in the golden light of its descend: my hair free of knots thanks to Olivia's hands this morning, my eyes catching the light, my slight smile irrepressible.
"Of course I did, Nov," Sofia says, "I can't believe you even said yes to giving a speech like this. I had to be there somehow."
Her words clench something in my stomach tightly, as if in one of my own fists. "Thank you, Sof. For being here."
Sofia's gaze softens. "You know, I can't always literally be there, but I'm still here."
"Are you referring to something right now?"
"No. I just..." She adjusts the camera, as a means to stretch the silence for a bit longer, maybe. "Your speech made me realize that, before college and this association, you didn't have anyone to really talk to about stuff. I mean that, if you need to, you can talk to me."
I stare at her for a long time. "I'll keep that in mind. You'll regret this."
"Maybe. But what are sisters for?"
I sit there talking to her until the sun's gone down and Flynn comes outside to reclaim his phone, handing me my stuff as he does.
"What are you doing for dinner?" He asks, pocketing his device.
I shrug as I look up to him, staying seated on the bench outside. "Why? Do you want to have dinner together?"
"Your friends do," Flynn says. "They went to the dining hall of your building. I was told to tell you to go there."
"They wanted to grab dinner at... my dining hall?" I snort, standing up. "Fine by me, I guess. Are you coming?"
He shakes his head. "Elle and I have date night tonight. And I think it'd be nicer and more symbolic if you did this with all those people you talked about in your speech."
"I don't care about symbolicism. You should come."
"Sorry. Another time." He pulls out his phone when it starts buzzing, his eyes shifting between the screen and me. Then he pockets it again and pulls me into an unexpected, quick hug. "There. We'll make it up to you, cool? I have to go."
He leaves me on the curbside like that, rushing back into the building, presumably to meet Elle.
I peer at the Moses Center for a lot longer than is necessary, picturing myself at those stairs and those doors, a year ago until right now.
The academic year is ending. I still have classes for some time, but there are no more meetings. I wonder what I'll look like in two months, as the second-year student I'll be. Will I still be as directionless as I am now, so unsure of where I'm headed? Will I feel more confident? Will I look much different?
I tuck away those questions for now and make my way to Weinstein hall, my stomach rumbling and my mouth still dry. I merely ate that fruit at breakfast, but I was so nervous for my speech that I skipped lunch.
Milo would kill me if he was here. Or, maybe he wouldn't. He would've made sure I'd eaten before I even went up there. He would've offered me that bookstand to put down my papers, like he did that day of my presentation.
The things to hold after my speech would've been his hands. The person to hold would've been him.
I clasp my hands around the bars of the doors to the dining hall, my mind empty except for him. It's why I don't really think about the fact that it's completely dark and quiet, and only notice the gentle, flickering lights of the candles when the door falls shut behind me.
"Hello?" I linger by the door. For some reason, my legs won't really carry me much further, tightening at the knees and brewing lower, in my shins. I flex my hands in an attempt to keep them from spasming and rolling into fists— but it's a process I can't really stop.
Just as I think of leaving, spooked by the emptiness of what is usually an extremely crowded place, he appears.
Milo Macarevich.
Cropped haired, doe-eyed, tall Milo Macarevich, stepping past the candles as if it's a dance and he weighs nothing.
And just like that, the final puzzle piece locks into place; filling a subdued emptiness easily, like the last brushstroke bringing a masterpiece to life.
You have three push notifications.