Owed to the devil

Isla Pov The walls of Saint Valeria Academy buzzed with pre-summer chaos—half laughter, half shrieking, and a whole lot of people pretending finals didn’t nearly kill us. Suitcases rolled. Tinsel sparkled where it definitely shouldn’t (because why was someone decorating the lockers in July?). The dorm hallway smelled like hairspray, overpriced perfume, and goodbye tears. One of my roommates, Delilah, sprawled across her bed in the middle of our disaster zone of a room, flipping through an issue of Teen Vogue with her AirPods in and a massive grin on her face. She hadn’t even finished packing. Classic Delilah. “You better not forget your passport again,” I reminded her as I folded my sketch pad into the side pocket of my duffel bag. She rolled onto her side. “I didn’t forget it last time, it just got... misplaced. Also, your sarcasm is showing, Isla.” Then she smiled dreamily. “Can you believe this term is finally over?” I could. My back still ached from late-night sculpture studio hours and my fingers had more calluses than a guitar string. But instead of saying that, I forced a smile. “Barely.” --- The rest of them trickled in, dragging overpacked suitcases and rolling their eyes at the state of Delilah’s bed. First was Becca, with her strawberry lip gloss and a Chanel weekender bag that probably cost more than our tuition. Then Zara, who always smelled like sandalwood and moved like she belonged on a fashion runway, not a science scholarship. And finally, Juniper—cool, collected, sarcastic Juniper—who never even unpacked properly to begin with. “I swear, if my flight gets delayed, I’m suing Heathrow,” Becca huffed as she sat down on her roller bag dramatically. “I cannot deal with economy seating again. I booked extra legroom and everything.” Zara snorted. “Oh no, not economy. How will you survive, Becs?” “Easy for you to say,” Becca tossed her hair. “You’re being chauffeured around Santorini by your mother’s third husband.” “Fourth,” Zara corrected with a smirk. “And he has a yacht. Try not to die of envy.” Juniper rolled her eyes. “Meanwhile, I’m heading to Bali for a two-week writing retreat. Then I’m crashing my cousin’s engagement party in Seoul. Zero obligations. Maximum sarcasm.” Delilah groaned dramatically from her bed. “Why are we so obnoxiously cool? I mean, do other dorms have this kind of luxury?” “Definitely not,” Zara said, digging through her tote bag. “We’re living the main-character lives.” Then they all looked at me. I paused in the middle of tying my duffel. “What?” “Where are you off to, Ice?” Delilah asked, using her annoying nickname for me. “You never said.” “Home,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Just… catching up on commissions. Sculptures. Stuff.” That was the part where I was supposed to nod and ramble about a family trip to Greece, or art camp in Italy, or something that made it sound like I had parents who even remembered I existed. Instead, I just shrugged and picked at a thread on my jeans. “I’ll be back home,” I said vaguely. “Nothing special.” Zara, bless her oblivious, fabulous heart, didn’t press. If she knew what “home” meant for me, she would’ve shut up immediately. Because “home” wasn’t sunny breakfasts and dad jokes and warm kitchens. It was a crumbling apartment on the east side of town, where rent was always overdue and the cabinets held more empty bottles than groceries. Home was my dad, passed out with his face in a poker deck. Home was the silence of stone, the chisel in my hand, and pretending marble was skin I could control. I wasn’t going to Europe. I wasn’t going to gelato heaven. I was going back to the life I worked like hell to escape every time I stepped foot onto this campus. They nodded politely. The way rich girls do when they realize someone doesn’t come from money but don’t know how to acknowledge it without sounding like a walking charity ad. “Oh cool,” Becca said, too brightly. “Well, at least you’ll be productive.” “Yeah,” I said. “Productive.” --- The sun was way too bright when we finally dragged our luggage out into the front courtyard of the dorm. It was like a runway for privilege—black SUVs, sleek town cars, personal drivers in suits tapping away at phones, all lined up like it was the Met Gala, not a school dismissal. “Wish me luck in Greece, darlings,” Zara said, slipping on her sunglasses as she practically floated down the steps into her black Mercedes. Delilah got picked up in a white jeep with music already thumping through the windows. Becca’s driver held the door like she was literal royalty. Juniper saluted us before hopping into a matte gray Tesla that hummed instead of roared. Then… it was just me. Me, my canvas duffel, my sketchpad stuffed with stone portraits and dreams I didn’t dare say aloud. And the faint groan of the subway a few blocks away. I walked past the gates of Saint Valeria alone, hugging my bag to my chest like it could anchor me. No driver. No sleek car. Just cracked sidewalks, hot pavement, and the steady unraveling of everything I’d spent years pretending didn’t exist. Summer wasn’t calling me toward the ocean or adventure. It was calling me home. And home... wasn’t just falling apart. It was waiting to collect.