Mr. Morton, the department's dean, raises his eyebrows at me after reading what's printed on the document I just handed him. "So your name's not Charmaine Stevens?"

I nod. Words have long failed me. The chances of me saying the wrong thing have never been this high.

The dean adjusts his glasses against the bridge of his nose. "And you wish to transfer to..."

"Berkeley," I answer, pressing my knuckles to my lips. The faux mahogany desk didn't look interesting until now. My foot also hasn't stopped tapping the floor since I entered the office and shoved my documents in the dean's face. "What do I need for them to honor my credits here?"

"Why are you leaving, Miss..." Mr. Morton's voice dies down.

"Stevens," I supply before clearing my throat at his attempted question. "I am transferring due to personal reasons. I hope we can leave it at that."

Mr. Morton blinks and shakes his head like he has just been jolted to do it. "Of course, Ms. Stevens," he taps his fingers against the documents he laid atop the table. "Just that not a lot of students transfer after spending merely a semester."

I shoulder the strap of my canvas bag. "That doesn't mean I couldn't do it, right?"

"Certainly not, Ms. Stevens," Mr. Morton says. "I hope you have enjoyed your stay."

I smile. "Of course," I say. Deep inside, my guts decides to lead a rebellion against my throat. Enjoyed my stay? This is the most annoying circumstance I've ever been shoved into in my whole life. My whole ten years of skipping towns and identities, I'd never have someone recognize me, much less agree to be my boyfriend after having dated me with a different name.

I did not enjoy my stay.

I try my best to not slam the door to Mr. Morton's office when I head out. It's not the poor dean's fault I need to leave. Next up, the dorms.

My phone's screen displays 1:00 PM, signaling the start of my class for the afternoon. I exhale through my nose. After class, then. There's only a handful of modules left to discuss. Should be a breeze.

My boots clack against the tiled corridor. An idea flashes in my head, making me pause. Alexis McKenzie. Now that's a perfect name for my next identity over at Berkeley. She'd be like Astrid who likes flashy clothes and wild, colorful things. Her face will be caked with make-up with bold eyeshadow colors. She will have this charismatic gait and a mysterious aura. She's the type to stay up all night texting guys and girl friends. Comic books and movies. Always wears her hair in pigtails.

She's from the UK and only moved to the US to study because her parents forced her to "look beyond one's borders". What utter crap but it's going in the backstory. I can't think of something better on my way to a class.

Coffee addict is taken. Scrapbook girl, check. Quirky nerd and math whiz girl, done. Out of all the traits a person can have, coming up with a perfect combination without sounding like a cheap copy of the previous identity or an exact replica of a person I met is proving to be hard. Should I have Alexis be fluent in French? That's out. I hate French.

My eyes widened as I settle into my seat. Aha. Swedish. She's going to be fluent in Swedish. Maybe German and Italian, too. Oh, she's currently learning Russian and Polish. A polyglot. Now, that's something new.

A smile breaks out of my face. That's a good plan. No more Charmaine Stevens. Chelsea Anderson is going down the drain once I get away from Denver Golding.

It's for the best for all of us.

The clock chimes and the professor arrives to start the class.

I'm walking to my next class after lunch with Astrid clinging to my arm. It's like she's afraid I'm going to disappear the second she lets go. Two days ago, she bumped into me just as I was cleaning my things in preparation to move out.

"What are you doing?" Astrid asked, going inside the room and shutting the door behind her. She glanced at the strewn clothes and school supplies on the floor. "Why are you packing?"

I shut the box where I stashed all my notebooks and printed modules before looking up to meet her expectant eyes. "I'm moving."

"To where?" she moved around the mess and crouched next to the box. "California? What are you going to do there?"

As much as I wanted to ignore her questions, it's not fair for Astrid to not know where I was planning to go next considering she's become somewhat my friend during these trying times at Fisher College. I sighed and ran my hands along the box's smooth, brown surface. "It's complicated," I started. "But I am leaving Fisher College after this semester. There's been problems at home."

"I thought you're from Alabama?" Astrid narrowed her eyes. "Why are you going to Cali?"

That's none of your business, I wanted to say back then. Or as Charmaine, I would have lied my way through it and said I've got an aunt or something. It's because of the weariness gripping my muscles that I just frowned and drove my hair out of my face. "I just want to go there," I said. "It's high time I get the hell out of here."

"Why? Is it..." her voice broke before dropping it to a whisper. "Is it because of me?"

I remember feeling appalled. "No!" I screamed loud enough to have probably been heard in the next room. "Why would it be your fault? Trust me, it's not. I just have to leave."

Astrid chewed her lip and gave an uncertain nod. "Okay," she said. "Good luck."

Now, she is gripping my arm so hard her fingers will most likely leave red marks all over my skin. She never did beg me to not leave but it's not going to be a far-off correlation that her grip is the equivalent of the sentiment. I let her be. Perhaps, there's a string to attach to her, much to my chagrin.

A series of heavy footsteps catches my attention to a figure spearing for our direction. Denver Goldings. He doesn't look thrilled to see me. Or maybe it's Astrid?

"Chelsea," Denver seethes.

My eyes widens and flicks to Astrid who already has a confused look on her face. Before she can ask, I nudge her. "Go," I jerk my chin in the vague direction of her next lecture. "I'll see you later," when her expression shows dismay, I add, "Promise."

That seems to satisfy her as she turns and leaves me alone with Denver. I raise my eyes to meet his for the first time since I met him here. "I told you: my name is Charmaine," I snap right back. "What's got you in a twist?"

"You're leaving?"

I frown. "Who told you that?"

"Words do go around, Charmaine," he folds his arms across his chest. "I guess your roommate told people and people told my friends. Then my friends told me. Is this how it's always going to go with you?"

"What do you mean?" I scoff and match his stance.

Denver exhales through his nose. "Do I always have to find out from other people?" he says. "When are you going to tell me what's bothering you as you are?"

"And somehow you have the right to know?" I shake my head. I can't believe this is happening. Does this even need to happen? Denver found me here. He is the reason I have to leave just when I'm starting to enjoy the place. "Last I checked, you're not anything to me."

He steps back. Hurt flickered in his eyes. "Not anything?"

"Yeah," I say. "I only said what I said to get away from the situation. You're not my boyfriend now. You're not my boyfriend then. Stop thinking you are or have been."

"So it's a lie, then?" Denver says. "Is everything a lie when you're involved?"

I purse my lips. "Not everything," I watch the stream of students and professors hurrying past us. Somehow, their noisy steps are lost in the loud ringing in my ears. Charmaine Stevens doesn't like confrontations. She doesn't like making enemies. Friendly. She's supposed to be friendly.

So why is she leaving the only friend she made in Astrid? Why is she saying hurtful words to Denver?

Why?

"I know enough to tell the truth when it matters," I grip the strap weighing down on my shoulder. "You want the truth, Denver Golding? I can give you the truth," I step forward. "Chelsea Anderson doesn't exist. Charmaine Stevens will soon be gone soon," I draw back and smooth my hair out of my face. "Forget me. You're smart enough to do that."

"You want to go? Fine," he says before I can get away. I stop in my tracks, listening to his feelings pour out his mouth. "You never really care about the hurt people you leave on your trail, don't you?"

More like...I didn't know. Why would people be hurt when I leave? I owe nothing to them as they do me. There's nothing between us. I don't understand it and I don't think I ever will. "You're right, I don't," I answer without turning to him. "Because people aren't anything to me more than flitting passers-by and senseless chatter in my ear."

I face him. "You want to know the reason I don't tell anyone I'm leaving? Because I don't care," I let our gazes lock for the last time. "And neither should you."

"Don't bother me apart from Mr. Reed's paper, then," Denver says, reflecting the same thing I texted him long ago.

I grit my teeth despite that big blow on my ego. "Fine."

With that, he turns away, leaving me to watch his frame get smaller and farther until he blends into the sea of clothes and white noise.