[trigger warning: non-explicit mention of sexual assault]

I submitted my Calculus exam on Monday morning in a rush of academic adrenaline and wondering just how much of a role differential equations will play in my future (none, ideally). After spending the majority of Sunday in the library studying for the exam, I hoped that enjoying my free period out in the warm spring air and sunlight would somehow cure the dark circles beneath my eyes and dull headache.

When I powered on my phone as I left the mathematics wing, a recent text from Trip altered my plans.

TRIP MCKENNA, 10:22 AM: at the usual spot

CHANDLER ENGLAND, 10:24 AM: on my way

I arrived at Trip's usual spot on the second floor of the library five minutes later. He sat at what I'd learned to be his favorite table near the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the soft morning light flowed through the nearby aisles in rivers of gold.

"Hey," I greeted softly, letting my fingertips dance across his shoulders as I moved to occupy the open seat beside him.

Trip turned his gaze away from the daunting molecular diagram occupying his laptop's screen and bestowed me with his charming half-smile. "How was Calc?"

"Fine," I sighed out. I folded my arms on the table and leaned forward to rest my head on top of them, but faced Trip with my eyes momentarily closed. "I'm just ridiculously tired. I don't think I have it in me to participate in Aspen's Citizens United v. FEC discussion today."

"Really?" I heard the hint of a smile in Trip's voice as he gently combed his fingers through my hair. "I thought you were super into free speech and campaign finance laws."

"Please don't make me laugh, Trip. You're going to ruin my sense of humor."

"Your sense of humor already largely includes European history references."

I opened my eyes and propped myself up on one elbow. "You don't appreciate those?"

Trip only grinned. "I appreciate that you're the one making them."

I hummed, feigning sincere contemplation of his remark. "Well, we're going to revisit this eventually, but I would actually appreciate it if you could proofread my AP Lang essay sometime before I print it tonight. I don't want any silly errors induced by sleep deprivation."

"All right," Trip nodded, sliding his laptop over to create space in front of him. "Pull it up."

"Now?" I arched an eyebrow.

"Now."

"Trip, I'm not that high maintenance." I sat up straight and flicked my wrist in the direction of his laptop. "You've got some sort of AP Chem monstrosity to deal with.''

"Chandler, I would love nothing more in this moment than to read your AP Lang essay."

I knew Trip was being funny, but the sincerity in his voice gave my body agency to move on its own. Before giving it a second thought, I leaned over and kissed him.

Trip still seemed to be in the moment when I pulled away. The corners of his mouth twitched into a quiet smile. "That was nice."

"I do in fact have my moments."

I extracted my laptop from my backpack and opened Google Docs. As Trip casually scrolled through my riveting rhetorical analysis on The Scarlet Letter, I felt my lips tilt upward in a tiny smile.

Before I'd started at Cannondale, Mom told me boarding school would make me grow up faster - contribute to making me more independent, and whatnot. But Cannondale wasn't a place I'd grown up in, it was a place I grew into.

Trip and I existed in an immaculate bubble at Cannondale, floating through the so-called coming-of-age years at our prestigious boarding school. We went to the dining hall together, walked each other to class, and played lacrosse up at the stadium while the sun set. It was easy, but I knew easy never lasted.

After all, Trip was graduating in June.

He was leaving the bubble. I needed to ensure I could exist outside the bubble with him, even if I wasn't leaving it just yet. 

"I meant what I said in front of my dad and Teá on Saturday about definitely having you over for dinner," I told Trip, forcing nonchalance into my voice as I tried to focus on the way his eyes scanned the words on the screen. "Our townhouse is in Beacon Hill, so it's not like a journey and traffic shouldn't be terrible. Would you...want to do that soon?"

When Trip turned his gaze over to me, there was a spark of amusement in his eyes that brightened his smile. "Yeah. Yeah, of course, I'd want to, Chan."

"Good," I sighed out, folding my hands together on the table. "Great. I'll let him know."

Trip nodded once before tilting his head at my essay. "Can I switch out a semicolon in your introduction?"

"Absolutely not."

Without looking at the screen, Trip pointedly hit the backspace button, eliminating my semicolon.

I rolled my eyes. "You're going to break my heart."

The hushed quiet of the library settled between us as Trip resumed reading my essay and I glanced over over the same few paragraphs of Citizens United v. FEC on Oyez as my brain snagged on rogue thought. I didn't realize I'd hoped Trip would say something - anything - about his family until the opportunity came and went in a whirlwind of seconds.

The only time Trip had spoken about his family was when he told me about his dad taking him and his brother to Obama's victory speech. That conversation was back in February, shortly after Winter Formal.

There was no point denying my initial hope that Trip would simply open up about his family, and provide me with a glimpse of his life outside of Cannondale. I knew I could just ask him, initiate the conversation, but my mounting guilt had my vocal cords in a vice-like grip.

I should've told Trip what Grayson had said about his family. I should've told him at Winter Formal, and I knew prolonging the conversation could potentially damage what we had together.

But then there was something else, a new uncertainty that I couldn't quite disregard.

Running the risk of feeling entitled and self-absorbed, I decided that everyone at Cannondale would claim to know something about my family's internal drama. It had taken me a fair amount of time to realize that this was beyond my control, and while I despised how I sometimes still felt chained to those outsider perceptions, I understood why I felt that way. I understood it, and I was learning not to let it prevent me from opening up to the people closest to me - namely Trip McKenna.

Looking at it now with what was perhaps a gilded version of hindsight, I should've known from that first kiss that Trip was truly Polaris. He had been a guiding light that I didn't know I needed. I loved that Trip listened. I loved that he didn't pass judgment, telling me how I should or shouldn't feel. I loved that he was there.

And yet he hadn't given me the opportunity to be there for him.

This would've been different if I was pouring my heart out with Trip completely unfazed. I wouldn't be tempted to ask myself why he might not trust me to support him the way I knew he supported me. This was a breach of intimacy we'd yet to cover together. A breach I was increasingly disenchanted by and walked the edge of whenever we were together.

There was a time in which Trip's charming elusiveness contributed to the gravitational pull of his presence. Though now, even with that gravitational pull as powerful as ever, I wondered if gravity was enough to keep us grounded.

✘ ✘ ✘

During evening hours on Tuesday, I popped down to Gianna's dorm room on the second floor of Roosevelt Hall. She'd asked if I could help her throw together a few outfits for her trip up to Bowdoin College in Maine, where she would do a campus tour and meet with the coaching staff of the women's lacrosse team. 

"I'm leaving for Bowdoin a day early," Gianna told me as I stepped inside her single. The Himalayan salt rock on her desk gave the tiny room a warm, orange glow. "My mom had a break in her schedule, so she wants to pop around downtown Portland. I think she's still getting used to me being away from home since New Hampton was only a day school."

"Well, Bowdoin's stunning," I said, dropping into the desk chair. "I visited last fall with my dad. He's also still getting used to me being away even though this is year three of boarding school."

Gianna lifted a brow as she folded a pair of light-wash Agolde jeans. "But he went to Cannondale too, right?"

"Oh, obviously," I drawled with a wry smile. My grandfather had also attended Cannondale (and Cornell, for that matter). "But that doesn't stop him from being super sentimental all the time." I paused for a beat, absentmindedly spinning the gold ring on my left index finger. "Though I suppose that's better than the alternative."

Even though it was Dad who'd attended Cannondale, Mom was the most keen on my attendance. In retrospect, I assumed that keenness originated from her wanting to feel less guilty about being away from home so often if I was also away. Even before our relationship took a turn for the worse, I hardly saw her, and even when I did, her work always seemed to commandeer our time together.

The last time I went on any kind of trip with Mom was last August when she dragged me from Los Angeles up to Washington State with all of its pine trees, ferry boats, and mountains in an attempt to sort out an administrative crisis with some niche TV series filmed on a speck of an island. That trip had ended horribly for all parties involved.

Swiftly extracting myself out of my internal pity party, I noted a framed photo on Gianna's desk of her alongside three other girls in vibrant sundresses. Though I didn't let my gaze linger, I recognized the girls from the singular post on Gianna's Instagram account.

"Do you miss Long Island at all?" I asked, genuinely curious. I'd only ever lived in Massachusetts, and my social contacts hardly ever strayed outside of New England. 

"Sometimes," Gianna sighed out, placing a folded sweater into her duffle bag. "I still talk to my closest friends, and I'm going to spend most of the summer with them on Fire Island. That helps with the missing."

As I nodded, I allowed myself a moment to be introspective. Kelsey and Macallan had been by my side since the sixth grade, and we'd essentially lived together for the better part of three years. They were constants in my life, and the fiercest of confidants.

"I've been with Kelsey and Macallan for what feels like forever. I honestly don't know what I'd do without them," I admittedly quietly, and met Gianna's gaze. "They've seen me through a lot. You have, too."

Gianna smiled, slightly shaking her head. "Trip McKenna was right, you know," she declared, and I abruptly stiffened. "I surrounded myself with the right people."

I managed a light laugh, drumming my fingertips against the smooth wooden surface of the desk. I'd yet to encounter Trip McKenna being wrong. There was something almost terrifying about that.

"Glad you think so," I said, very keen to return to the relevant subject. "Anyway, I can totally see you at Bowdoin. You'd make a very classy polar bear."

"Thanks." Gianna smiled again. "It's kind of crazy to think that we're going to have our collegiate futures sorted out this summer. It's why we've been playing for all these years, other than for the love of the sport, of course."

"Of course," I echoed, my laugh finally genuine. I turned my attention to her closet. "So, is there a specific look you're going for?"

"Alpha female," Gianna quipped before gesturing to her collection of clothes. "Just me know if anything catches your eye."

I thumbed through the stylish contents of the closet, pulling out a few articles that caught my eye.

"This is wicked cute," I remarked, holding up a faded denim skirt. Bronzed snap buttons adorned the front from the top hem to the bottom.

"Yeah, it is." Gianna nodded, though she seemed unconvinced.

"I don't think I've seen you wear it, actually," I commented, examining one of the buttons. "This is definitely a contender."

She gave an off-handed shrug. "I don't think I need it. Besides, it's probably still too cold in Maine for a skirt."

"But Gianna, this is pretty alpha female-"

"I'm not wearing that skirt, Chandler!"

Gianna's tone nearly prompted me to drop the hanger. "Okay, fine," I surrendered, returning the skirt to the rack. "Forget I said anything at all."

"I'm sorry," Gianna quickly said. "It's not you. It's the skirt."

I immediately processed the implication of her defense. "If there's anything you want or need to say, I'll listen."

She leaned against the foot of the bed frame. "It's a nice skirt," she stated, her gaze set on the open closet. "Simple yet stylish. It goes with pretty much everything."

I took a breath, tempted to anticipate what I could only assume was a negative experience from Gianna's past. There were only so many avenues her words could take, but regardless, I knew I just needed to listen. I nodded, hoping to provide her with the opportunity to elaborate if she wanted to.

"It's a nice skirt," Gianna reaffirmed, then added with a breathy sigh, "but it's also the skirt he ripped off me that night."

"I'm so sorry that happened to you," I said automatically. I didn't want to overwhelm her with sympathy, but I hoped she understood that I sincerely meant it.

This wasn't supposed to happen, ever. You heard about this and it was terrible, but you never thought it would reach you or your friends. But maybe that was wishful thinking. Maybe I was a privileged and naive 16-year-old girl who tricked herself into believing she was invincible. 

"I thought about throwing it away or donating it, but it's still a nice skirt," Gianna was saying. "I won't let him take it away from me...or my power. He can't have it. I don't know if I'll ever be ready to wear that skirt again, but I want to give myself a choice. I deserve that."

"Okay," I acknowledged with a singular nod. "I can't pretend to understand what you've endured." With my words suspended between us, I took a deliberate beat. I swallowed the knot of emotion in my throat. "But I do know you're brave."

"Brave?" Gianna choked out. "How am I brave? I left, I essentially ran away."

"Running can be the brave thing," I insisted. "It was the brave thing, Gianna. You're brave."

"That means a lot, Chan," Gianna said, taking a few steps towards me. "Thank you. I would really love to be a brave, classy polar bear."

She then swooped me into a hug, which I warmly reciprocated.

We all had a set trajectory, and while that was something I felt like I'd been dreading recently, I also realized moving on wasn't always a bad thing. Sometimes it was just moving forward.

✘ ✘ ✘

☆hey ☆

this is the last chapter i wrote before moving to london in september for graduate school. so in a very real sense, uploading this chapter symbolizes the end of an era for me both as an individual and as a writer.

running the risk of being melodramatic, the last 6 months have been the most formative of my life. there are days when i know exactly what my purpose is, what i'm setting out to accomplish, and what i'm passionate about. but then there are other days - or even minutes on those otherwise golden self-certain days - when i feel like the person i was when i started writing this story is a stranger.

i don't think i noticed that at first, really. or the difference in how i felt about my writing and how i felt about sharing it. but when i did, it was incredibly disorienting. i asked myself a lot of tricky questions and i didn't always like the answers i arrived at.

reading over this chapter before uploading was like seeing a mosaic of myself at such uncertain yet optimistic time in my life. i remember where i was when i wrote specific sentences, what the weather was like, and most importantly how this was one of the hardest chapters to write. i wondered if i even wanted to write it at all. it's deeply personal, but maybe that's why i ended up writing it. why i needed to write it.

put simply, writing for me is always personal and each story/chapter/sentence/ has a weight of its own. there's no fancy moral to this literal monologue, but i hope it's worded half eloquently, and maybe i won't delete this later. thank you for being here with me and Chandler x