登入The hallway smelled like industrial carpet cleaner and rain.Three flights of stairs because I couldn’t stand in an elevator for thirty seconds without losing my nerve. My backpack was cutting into my shoulders and the suitcase wheel had been sticking since baggage claim. I was two weeks early and I hadn’t told him, and the fellowship stipend had processed ahead of schedule.My lease was signed and I was HERE – standing in a Portland apartment corridor at 4 PM on a Wednesday with my hair still damp from the airport rain and my heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to evacuate my body before I did something irreversible.Door 314. The numbers slightly crooked on the panel. An unpolished detail that didn’t belong to any room Richard Maddox had ever paid for. This apartment was Rhys’s. Bought with his own money, furnished with his own bad taste.I knocked. Three times. Hard. The way you knock when you’ve spent two months talking to a screen and the screen isn’t enough and the
The acceptance appeared at 9:02 AM on a Tuesday. No fanfare. Just a line of text on the student portal that rearranged my life in eleven words.Status: Admitted. Full Fellowship Track. Portland State University Creative Writing Program.I closed my laptop. Put on my jacket. Walked out of the dorm before the walls could close in.The bench outside the English department. Concrete cold through my jeans. July sun cutting through the campus elms in sharp patches. I sat with my hands in my pockets and my knuckles trembling against my car keys and let the decision I’d already made catch up to the rest of me.Portland. Full ride. The best writing program on the West Coast.And the question that had been sitting in my chest since the night I submitted the application at 11:58 PM without telling anyone: was I going for the program or for the boy?Because I’d watched this movie before.Elena packed a bag and followed a man into a life that revolved around his gravity and she disappeared inside
I let the phone ring twice before I answered. Not because I was nervous. Because I was already wet and I needed the extra four seconds to decide whether to tell him or let him figure it out.I swiped.The connection stuttered, pixelated, then resolved into Rhys’s face, his Portland apartment in the background – bare walls, the framed Gatsby essay, which was the only thing he’d hung, a mattress on the floor because he’d been there two months and still hadn’t bought a bed frame.His hair was damp from a post-practice shower and his jaw had that locked, guarded line it got during the weeks when the calls were getting shorter and the texts were getting more functional and the distance was doing what distance does to people who learned love through skin.His eyes dropped.I was wearing his away jersey. Number seventeen. The silver-and-blue mesh hanging past my thighs, MADDOX across my collarbones in block letters. Underneath it – nothing. I’d positioned the phone on my nightstand at the ex
The blue-white glow of the phone screen was the only light left in my dorm room.Three weeks. That’s how long his cedarwood cologne had been fading from the oversized black hoodie I’d stolen from his closet before the airport. Every night at ten, the screen would light up, his face appearing in a digital box that felt increasingly small.He was sitting on a mattress on the floor of his new Portland apartment. Behind him, the wall was bare except for the framed B+ Gatsby essay I’d hung on his old wall. On my side, the desk was cluttered with his photocopied margin notes and the chipped blue coffee mug he’d left behind. Two rooms separated by three thousand miles of fibre-optic cable and a time zone that made every conversation feel like we were speaking from opposite ends of a tunnel.“The left winger is forty pounds heavier than anyone at Thornfield.” He was lying on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes. “Skates like a tank. Takes lines nobody else can touch.”“Did you check him
The windshield wipers kept a steady rhythm against the glass, clearing the grey morning mist but doing nothing for the airless quiet inside the car.Rhys sat in the passenger seat, his frame hunched under his leather jacket, hands deep in his pockets. He hadn’t looked at me since we cleared the campus exit. Eyes fixed on the grey blacktop, jaw locked so tight the muscle in his cheek looked like stone.In the backseat, Miles was silent. He’d insisted on coming, his hands shoved into the pockets of his oversized number seventeen jersey. The black block letters across his thirteen-year-old shoulders read MADDOX – the permanent mark of a loyalty shift that had cost our family its baseline security but had given my brother a person worth lacing up for.I parked in the terminal lot. The ignition cut out with a sharp click that officially ended the countdown.Nobody moved for thirty seconds.Rhys threw his door open first. He hauled his gear bag from the trunk, his left arm – the one with th
The cardboard boxes stacked against the bedroom wall looked like headstones in the dim light.Everything was packed. Clothes, dishes, gear, the weights from the living room floor – taped and labelled in black marker, reducing months to inventory. The only things left uncovered were a copy of Gatsby sitting on a packing crate by the door and the mattress. The bed was the single piece of furniture left assembled, a stark island in the middle of an empty room.Rhys sat on the edge, head down, elbows on his knees. The low hum of the city outside the glass was a constant, mocking reminder that July had arrived. His gear bag was zipped. Keys on the counter. The plane ticket was already in the pocket of his leather jacket.I stepped into his space, bare feet silent on the floorboards. My throat was so dry it felt like paper.He didn’t look up. His shoulders dropped in one long exhale. His hands came up on instinct, his fingers locking around my waist to pull me flush against his chest. No de
I sat in the driveway for eleven minutes before I could make my hands stop shaking long enough to turn off the engine.My mom's voice was still in my ears – how COULD you and I'm finally happy and fix it – playing on a loop that got louder every time I tried to think past it. I'd driven here becaus
I couldn't sleep.Twelve days on my childhood bed and I still couldn't sleep in it. The mattress remembered a version of me that didn't exist anymore – the fifteen-year-old version that was grieving and small enough to curl into the corner and disappear. The woman lying in it now was too big for th
She was sitting at the kitchen table when I came downstairs.Coffee in front of her. Both hands wrapped around the mug. Not drinking – holding. The way people hold things when they need an anchor and the nearest one is ceramic. She was wearing the flannel pajamas again. Second day in a row. Whateve
My childhood bedroom was a museum of a girl who no longer existed.Participation trophies from softball lined the shelf above my desk – the sport I'd quit at fifteen when Dad died and everything that wasn't survival stopped mattering. A cork board above my bed still pinned with movie tickets and ph







