Sixty Days
"Sometimes the smallest decision changes the rest of your life."
Sixty days.
That was all I had left.
Sixty days until I walked across a stage in a cap and gown.
Sixty days until four years of late nights, missed parties, caffeine, tears, impossible equations, and pretending I wasn't exhausted became a single piece of paper with my name on it.
Amy Carter.
Bachelor of Science in Engineering.
Honors.
I stared at the countdown on my phone as though it might change if I looked away long enough.
60 days until graduation.
The words should have filled me with nothing but excitement.
They did.
Mostly.
But beneath the excitement was something tighter—something that settled beneath my ribs every time I thought about what came next.
Graduation wasn't just an ending.
It was proof.
Proof that every sacrifice had mattered.
That the nights I'd cried quietly into my pillow before getting up and doing it all again hadn't been for nothing.
That I hadn't disappointed my mother.
That if my dad were still here, he'd flash that proud smile of his and say, That's my girl.
My throat tightened before I could stop it.
I locked my phone and laid it facedown on the kitchen table.
The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the steady rhythm of rain against the window. Outside, Detroit wore shades of gray beneath heavy clouds, the streets glistening from the morning rain. The kind of day that begged people to stay buried beneath warm blankets.
I didn't have that luxury.
My laptop sat open in front of me, a half-finished structural analysis report glowing across the screen. Beside it rested a cup of coffee I'd forgotten to drink while it was still hot.
Again.
I took a sip anyway.
Cold.
Bitter.
A perfect reflection of how I felt.
"Girl, you look like you're calculating the weight of the world."
Mia's voice drifted down the hallway before she appeared, tying the belt of her robe around her waist. Her curls were piled on top of her head, and somehow she looked more put together half asleep than I did fully dressed.
"I might be," I said. "Do you know the formula for that?"
"Easy." She reached for a mug. "One overworked engineering student multiplied by emotional repression."
I shot her a look.
She smiled innocently.
"Did I lie?"
"No."
"Exactly."
Mia had been my best friend since freshman year at Titan Engineering College. She was loud where I was quiet, fearless where I hesitated, and brutally honest in a way that usually annoyed me...
...right up until I realized she was right.
Which happened far too often.
---
I parked in the intern lot and glanced at myself in the rearview mirror.
Chocolate skin.
Brown eyes.
Shoulder-length hair smoothed into submission.
A crisp blouse tucked into pressed slacks.
Company badge clipped neatly in place.
Nerves hidden.
Mostly.
"You belong here," I whispered.
I said it every morning.
I still wasn't sure I believed it.
Taking one last breath, I stepped out into the rain.
---
By noon, my brain felt like it had run three marathons.
I'd spent the morning reviewing foundation load calculations for a commercial redevelopment project. My supervisor, Grace—a senior project engineer who oversaw the internship program—had asked me to double-check a section another intern had overlooked.
"Good catch on the compression error," she said, stopping beside my desk.
I looked up.
"Thank you."
"Don't sound surprised."
"I'm not."
She lifted an eyebrow.
I pressed my lips together.
Okay.
Maybe I was.
Grace smiled.
"Amy, confidence isn't arrogance. You're allowed to recognize when you've done good work."
There it was again.
The same lesson.
Different teacher.
Mia.
Grace.
Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something.
Take up space.
I nodded.
"I'll work on that."
"Good." She tapped the folder resting on my desk. "Crane & Rogers doesn't hire people who only know how to stay quiet."
My pulse skipped.
Hire.
The single word lingered between us like a door someone had quietly left open.
Before I could ask what she meant, Grace continued down the hallway.
I watched her disappear around the corner.
A full-time position.
That was the dream.
Graduate with honors.
Finish the internship.
Earn a position at Crane & Rogers.
Build a life stable enough that Mom would never have to worry again.
Become the woman Dad had always believed I could be.
Simple.
Organized.
Predictable.
Love could wait.
Life made more sense when everything stayed neatly in order.
---
I unlocked my phone again.
The profile was still there.
The black mask.
Those impossible blue eyes.
The quiet words that somehow felt louder than everyone else's.
I locked the screen.
Set the phone down.
Picked it back up.
"No," I whispered.
The woman at the next table glanced at me.
I smiled awkwardly and pretended to reread my report.
Instead, I opened the message box.
For a long moment, I stared at the blinking cursor.
What exactly did someone say to a masked stranger on the internet?
Hi... your loneliness is beautifully written?
Absolutely not.
I deleted the blank message.
Closed the app.
Took one slow breath.
Then opened it again.
My heart beat a little faster.
Ridiculous.
It was only a message.
One tiny decision on an otherwise ordinary day.
Before I could lose my nerve, I typed.
Hi... I know this is random, but I came across your profile and wanted to say your posts are beautiful. They feel... honest.
I reread it three times.
Too much?
Probably.
I should delete it.
I should finish my report.
I should remember that strangers on the internet were strangers for a reason.
Instead...
I hit Send.
Three seconds passed.
Nothing.
Of course nothing happened.
I laughed softly at myself, turned my phone facedown, and forced my attention back to my laptop.
Sixty days until graduation.
That was what mattered.
My future.
My career.
The life I'd spent years planning.
Not a masked stranger with ocean-colored eyes and words that lingered beneath my skin.
My phone buzzed.
Once.
Softly.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned it over.
A new message waited on the screen.
Nocturne:
Thank you, Amy. That means more than you know.
My breath caught.
He had answered.
And without either of us realizing it...
One small decision quietly changed the direction of two lives.
