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I try not tothink about the gala, but it ticks in my brain like a countdown clock. No matter how much I try to push it away, the dread settles deep, infecting every thought.

A couple of weeks before the event, my phone vibrates on my desk.

Mum and Dad.

I stare at the screen. I’ve dodged their calls for weeks. I know they’re waiting for an update, waiting for proof that their daughter is thriving at Harvard.

There’s only so long I can avoid them. I swipe to answer.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Sophie!” Mum’s voice comes through, a little too loud, too bright—overcompensating. “How are you? Did exams go well?”

“I’m fine,” I say, but the words feel hollow even as I say them. Why can’t I bring myself to tell them I miss them, that I miss home?

Because it would feel like admitting I’m a failure.

“Exams went well, I think. I did the best I could.”

“Of course you did. You always do.”

There’s a faint clatter of dishes in the background. I picture her standing in our tidy kitchen, still in her work cardigan, phone wedged between her shoulder and ear. My heart clenches. I picture home:the big blue couch and peace lilies, theChristmas tree still up in a corner of the living room, Dad frowning atThe Daily Telegraph’s cryptic crossword.

As if she can hear my thoughts, Mum adds, “Your dad’s here too. Honey, say hello.”

“Hello, Sophie.” Dad’s deep voice is as reserved as always. Maybe he’s as nervous to speak to me as I am to speak to him. He hesitates before asking, “Are you… are you doing alright? Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” I say again, and quickly change the subject. “How’s everything back home?”

Mum fills the silence with updates: work, the house, the same predictable routine. But there’s a strain in her voice, the unspoken question lurking beneath:How are you really?

Then, tentatively, she says, “Do you need anything? Money for books, clothes—”

I swallow hard. I should tell them I miss them. That Christmas was unbearable without them. That I sat in my room and built a tiny snowman on my windowsill.

Instead, I blurt out, “There’s a gala coming up soon. In New York.”

“A gala?” Mum perks up instantly. “What kind of gala?”

“It’s organised by the Harvard Law School Alumni Association. It’s supposed to be a good networking opportunity.”

“Oh, Sophie, that sounds amazing,” she says, her enthusiasm bordering on relief. “You’ll make a great impression, I just know it. Do you have something to wear? Are you sure you don’t need us to send you anything? We wanted to send you money for Christmas, only—”

“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. I hadn’t thought about what to wear—something else to feel anxious about now. “I’m sorting it out, don’t worry.”

“Make the most of it, Sophie,” Dad says. “Events like that can be life-changing.”

Their words settle heavily in my chest.Make the most of it. They mean well, I know they do, but sometimes their pride feels like a fragile thing, like it hinges on my success. I think of how much I’ve struggled, how hard I’m fighting just to keep my head above water, and a lump rises in my throat.

Before we hang up, Dad adds, “You’re a brave girl, Sophie. I hope you know how proud we are.”

I whisper, “I know.”

I hang up and set my phone down on the desk, staring at the darkened screen, throat so tight I can hardly breathe. The walls feel too close, the air too thin. My thoughts spiral: the gala, the pressure, the crushing weight of expectation. Max and Dahlia watching, waiting to see if I fail or if I become exactly what they suspect I am.

My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything except the suffocating certainty thatI can’t do this. The air feels thin, like I’m not breathing right. My hands are trembling, but I curl them into fists, trying to get a grip of myself.

I grab my phone; it almost drops from my shaking fingers. I don’t want to feel like this, and I don’t want to be alone, and I’m sick of being tired and lonely and sad. My fingers hover over the screen, over the name I want to call, the face I want to see.