Although the world shut down for a while when Cole left me, I'm determined not to make that a habit—I mean, even though Cole's apology drops out of nowhere, or even if he appears right in front of my face.
That determination is the hardest part of living, as classes continued, assignments piled up, and life moved forward with a kind of indifference that felt almost cruel.
For the past weeks, I had been partially existing in fragments: physically present, emotionally somewhere else.
Now, I want to shut out the whispers and judgments, and I'm getting accustomed to finding myself in the front seats.
It's not because I want to be seen, but because hiding did not save me.
So what's the point of hiding?
"You're different," a course mate of mine notes one afternoon as I study in the library.
I look up from my book to see her sitting across me, her elbows resting on the desk as she leans forward as if scrutinizing me.
She has the guts to approach me, and I want to reply to her with 'How's that your business?' but I pause. She may not necessarily be a spy.
"Am I?" I respond instead.
The girl nods. "You don't look like you're waiting for something anymore."
I pause again, my brows creasing with confusion.
Now that I think about it, what she said is true.
I no longer feel like I'm on edge. I no longer imagine how I'd feel when I see Cole suddenly walk into the classroom and step on the podium. I no longer imagine what he looks like now, or what color of suit he's wearing, or where he is for that matter.
He no longer exists rent-free in my head.
And I know it's because I've acknowledged the fact that he's gone and gone forever.
"I'm sorry if I sounded rude. I'm Amara." The girl extends a handshake to me.
I look at the hand, then ignore it, returning my gaze to my book.
That night, I stand in front of my mirror to study my reflection.
I still have the same face, and I'm the same girl. But something has shifted.
I once loved and lost it. But, most of all, I survived the loss.
"I won't disappear again," I whisper.
With that, I throw myself into work. If people are going to look at me, if they are going to talk, then I'll give them something real to see.
Overtime, my grades improved, my voice steadied, and I fought head-on with inferiority complex.
I started speaking in lectures. All lectures, irrespective of the teacher or the subject. I did not do it to impress, or to be noticed, but because I wanted to.
Slowly, the narrative changed.
"She's actually really good…"
"Did you hear her presentation?"
"I didn't expect that from her…"
Respect.
That's what it is.
It leaks from people's tone. And I earned every piece of it.
However, there still is one tiny setback.
At night, when everything grows quiet, a small part of me misses him.
I've tried to kill that small part of me on several occasions, but it's like a cockroach. It refuses to die.
Now I've given up trying to erase it. I just have to accept the fact that no matter what I do, it will be there.
Cole was my first love, after all.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I always thought time would heal everything. But then I realize that instead of healing, it's changing things.
Sometimes, like now, that's enough.
It's finally the final year and the final days.
Standing in front of a conference hall, feeling the sting of over fifty sets of eyes on me as the spotlight focuses on me, I present my final project with a confidence that once terrified me.
I can't count the number of times I expressed to Cole how much I dreaded this day.
Yet, here I am.
My hands don't shake, nor does my voice. I don't look at anyone for approval; I just speak, and people listen.
Afterwards, I receive a round of applause before stepping out of the room. That's when I meet my project supervisor, who is more than ready to extend a handshake.
"That was excellent, Miss Stone."
I smile. "Thank you."
I walk through the hallway with my head held high.
My reputation never fully recovered, but it doesn't define me anymore.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
As I box the important stuff in my apartment, Amara comes knocking. We've grown close since two years ago when we met in the library.
"You're really leaving?" she asks while looking around the almost-empty place.
I nod. "I have an internship waiting, remember?"
Amara shrugs. "Lucky you. Many of us haven't still gotten a reply. You may be the only person who received a reply that early."
Come to think of it, that's true. The portal to apply for an internship usually opens two years earlier, but the replies flood in during the final year.
I wasn't shocked when I received a reply at that time due to my situation, but I'm stunned now. Plus, they usually reply through email. Mine was a letter.
I shrug it off anyway.
"To Rockland we go, baby!" Amara suddenly cheers. I merely smile. "Look at you. New city, new life," she adds with a grin.
New life.
I like the sound of that.
Later that day, I head to school to take a stroll around campus one last time.
I merely pass by all the other places, but I can't help lingering outside one door.
Cole's old office.
It holds too many moments between me and the man, and this school has a better part of my memories.
Now I wonder… if I told my exuberant self of four years ago about what would happen later in the school, would I still be so eager to attend it?
I rang it like a bell for my parents then.
'New Savors College means everything to me.'
'If I don't go to New Savors College, I'll die.'
'New Savors College.'
'New Savors College.'
'New Savors College.'
Now it's just a chapter—one that I have to close eventually.
I take in a huge breath, then let it out slowly. For the first time, I'm actually convinced that my future isn't tied to my past, and I'm ready to move on.
Even though somewhere deep down I wonder if I would ever see Cole again, I tell myself it doesn't matter.
Cos I'm stronger now. I can look him in the eye now and not feel the need to cry.
Then a voice whispers… 'can you really?'
"It still doesn't matter," I whisper to myself as I continue walking.
But my heart thinks otherwise.