chapter 8
1139 Words
Zack's POV
Monday morning hit like a punch.
Zack woke up groggy, blinking into the harsh light of day as he reached for his phone.
Still no reply.
He stared at the screen, willing a message to appear. Nothing.
A hollow ache settled somewhere behind his ribs. He’d thought maybe—just maybe—his apology would make a difference. That she’d reply, even with a “fine” or “whatever.” Something.
But silence? That hit different.
Now, instead of feeling confident about seeing her in class, he felt dread creeping under his skin. She’d definitely be pissed. Rightfully so. And sitting next to someone who hated him wasn’t exactly a great way to start the week.
He pulled on a hoodie and dragged himself through the motions of his morning—coffee, brushing his teeth, trying to convince himself to just deal with it.
But the pit in his stomach never left.
Eleanor's POV
My phone buzzed when I rolled over, the light barely starting to fill the dorm room.
Zack’s name was on the screen.
I stared at it, not clicking into the message right away.
I already knew what it would say. I’d seen it last night and ignored it. Not out of spite—just… exhaustion.
> Eleanor—I messed up. You’re right. I didn’t put it in my calendar and I should’ve. I wasn’t thinking, and I didn’t mean to waste your time, but I did. That’s on me. I don’t expect you to be okay with it, but I’ll show up from here on out. You deserve that. Let me know when you want to meet next—I’ll be there.
I appreciated the honesty. Really. I knew that wasn’t easy for someone like Zack.
But I couldn’t reply. Not today.
Today… today already felt like more than I could carry.
It had been two years.
Two years since everything in my life shattered.
Two years since my world split in half.
Mom. Dad.
Gone in a blink.
And as if the universe wasn’t cruel enough—this week was Parents Week. Flyers everywhere. Posters in every hallway. Girls in the dorm talking about brunch plans and dinner reservations. Professors saying things like, “Looking forward to meeting your families!”
It felt like a cruel joke.
I was already raw, but this week tore the scab open all over again.
Still, I got up. I dressed. I tied my hair back. I put on my best mask.
Because if grief had taught me anything, it was how to fake normal.
So I walked to class. And I sat in the same row I always did—in the middle, second from the aisle—and prayed no one would ask me to smile.
Zack's POV
I spotted her before I even sat down.
Same seat. Same posture. But she looked… different.
Not mad. Not even cold.
Just… distant.
She wasn’t glaring at me. She wasn’t avoiding me.
But her face was carefully blank, like someone holding a thousand emotions behind a locked door.
I slid into the seat beside her.
“Hey,” I said, quietly.
She barely glanced at me, eyes focused ahead.
“Hey,” she whispered back, sinking farther into her seat like she wished the chair could swallow her whole.
I hesitated. Opened my mouth to say something else—something about yesterday, about the messages, about anything—but she beat me to it.
“Can we talk about it another day?” she asked, voice tight. “I don’t have the energy or the will to today.”
I froze.
Nodded once, slowly.
“Yeah. Of course.”
And for the first time in a long time, Zack Dalton didn’t have a comeback.
He just sat in silence next to a girl who wasn’t mad—she was hurting.
And he had no idea why.
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zack's pov
I’d spotted her a couple of times on campus this week—always in passing, always alone.
She hadn’t looked as fragile as she did on Monday, but something was still off. Her shoulders were tense, her steps quick. She never lingered. Never looked up. Like she was trying to make herself invisible.
Tuesday afternoon she texted.
> Does Sunday at 2PM work for the project?
I replied immediately.
> Yeah. That works. Thanks for following up. It’s in my calendar.
I’d double-checked that calendar three times since.
Wednesday, I went to the school’s Parents Week mixer. I didn’t expect to see my own family—they never came to stuff like that—but I thought maybe I’d run into her.
She wasn’t there.
I even checked the study lounge near her dorm and outside the lecture hall.
Nothing.
So I texted again.
> You doing okay? Haven’t seen you at any of the events.
No reply.
Nothing on Thursday either.
Until I saw her.
Backpack slung over one shoulder. Duffel bag in hand. Hair pulled into a low bun. No makeup. No expression.
She was climbing into a black GMC pickup parked on the edge of the lot near her dorm.
She didn’t look like she was going on a weekend getaway. She looked like she was escaping.
Something didn’t sit right with me.
So I walked straight into her building. Third floor, end of the hall. I’d only been there once, when she mentioned the name of her dorm during the first week of classes.
I knocked twice.
The door creaked open, and I blinked when I saw who answered.
“Cole’s girlfriend,” I said without thinking. “Didn’t know you were Eleanor’s roommate.”
She shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah. I am. Though I spend more time at your place than here.”
That tracked. I’d seen her in our dorm more often than not.
“She’s not home right now,” she added, crossing her arms.
“Yeah, I figured. I, uh…” I scratched the back of my neck. “Do you know where she is?”
She hesitated.
Then nodded toward the small whiteboard on the back of the door. I leaned just far enough to read it.
> Needed a few days. Be back Sunday.
That was all it said. No name. No place. No explanation.
“She didn’t say where?” I asked, frowning.
“No. Just that she needed to clear her head. I don’t think it’s about school, though.”
She didn’t elaborate—and I didn’t ask.
But something twisted in my gut as I left.
Eleanor Jones was a mystery. One I hadn’t even meant to care about.
But I did.
And now, for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I really hoped she’d come back Sunday.
Not just for the project.
But because I wanted to see her again.
- Writer
