Page 21

21

QUINN

The stack of papers on my desk is thick but forgettable. First-week assignments are short and low-stakes, the kind of thing students rush through in twenty minutes, hoping their half-hearted thoughts will pass as introspection. Most of them will.

Lang’s prompt was simple enough:

Choose a passage from this week’s reading that resonated with you—a line, a sentence, even a single word—and write 250 words on why it stood out. What did it make you think about? How does it connect to something in your life, past or present?

Most of the responses are predictable: breakups, moving away from home, losing a pet. Some are barely more than a paragraph, like the students thought the word count was just a suggestion. Others overcompensate with flowery language stretched thin across an entire page.

I’ve been working through them for over an hour now, bouncing between coffee sips and mindless scrolling whenever my focus dips. But I’m down to the last few pages—the last handful of names—and I know what’s coming.

I’ve been telling myself I wouldn’t look at it. That it’s none of my business. That I shouldn’t care. But when I reach Warren’s paper, my fingers hesitate.

The letters are sharp, pressed hard into the page like he carved them there instead of writing them. My fingertips trace the curve of the W before I even realize what I’m doing. I pull my hand back fast, exhaling through my teeth.

I told him I wouldn’t be marking his assignment. Stood there in the hallway, said it straight to his face. Don’t worry, I won’t be the one grading your papers.

But I couldn’t bring myself to confess the conflict of interest to Professor Lang. It would’ve been unprofessional or maybe just awkward. Either way, I didn’t want to deal with it. Didn’t want to make it a thing. So, I left it alone.

I should skip his work, at least for now. Just slide it to the bottom of the stack and forget about it until tomorrow. But instead, I flatten the page against my desk and start to read.

“The line about ‘letting go of what’s already lost’ reminded me of the way summer ends. It’s slow at first, then all at once. You blink, and it’s over. Like the sun setting without warning, even when you swore you were paying attention. The ache of knowing you had more time than you thought, and still wasting it. Or maybe just not using it right.”

My pulse stutters.

There’s more. Two hundred words more that tell me about Warren as a wide-eyed kid who looked up to a dad who broke more promises than he kept. Then, later, to a jaded teen who stopped believing in second chances. And then, eighteen, when he started pretending none of it touched him at all.

Two hundred words that dance around regret without naming it outright. That hint at something unfinished, something cut off too soon.

I read it again. Slower this time. Like maybe I missed something. Some clue, some sign, some indication that he’s not talking about what I think he’s talking about. But the truth is threaded through every line.

If he thought I wouldn’t be reading this, then maybe that’s the only reason he let himself be honest.

My chest tightens, and suddenly, I’m back at Sycamore. Back in that last patch of fading summer sunlight. His arm stretched behind his head, my fingers curling in the grass beside him. The way his voice dipped low when he said we’ve still got time.

You blink, and it’s over.

I press my palm hard against my desk.

It’s not about me. It’s not. It’s just a damn paper. A few vague thoughts about a reading assignment. He probably dashed it off ten minutes before class. He probably hasn’t thought about it since.

I slip the cursed piece of paper to the bottom of the pile, like if I can just bury it beneath enough pages, I’ll forget the way it made my stomach twist. Then I stare at the stack for a long time—restless, uneasy—like it’s still sitting there, waiting to pull me back under.

I need to get the hell out of here.

I grab my bag from the corner of my room, pull on my sneakers, and step out into the apartment’s dimly lit hallway. Jordan and Alyssa are curled beside each other the couch, a blanket tangled around their legs, the TV flickering soft blue light against the walls.

“You heading out?” Jordan sleepily asks.

An empty wineglass balances on the arm of the couch, and Alyssa’s half-asleep against her shoulder. They must’ve gone out earlier. They’re still dressed up, makeup smudged, watching some comfort movie they’ve seen a dozen times before.

It’s domestic. Easy. The kind of peace I can never seem to settle into.

“Yeah,” I say, tightening my ponytail. “I’ve got . . . stuff.”

Jordan cocks a brow. “Emberline again?”

I shrug. “I like it there.”

She doesn’t press, but I can feel her watching. I know she’s noticed the late-night gym runs, tracked the pattern without saying much. I’ve given her just enough to quiet the questions. I’ve told her that it clears my head, that it makes me feel strong.

But I haven’t told her the whole truth. That it’s not just about strength; it’s about stillness. About quieting the noise in my head the only way I know how—by moving fast, hitting hard, burning through every thought until there’s nothing left but breath and muscle and calm.

“You sure you don’t wanna stay?” Jordan asks, gesturing to the screen. “We’re watching The Proposal again. Come suffer with us.”

I smile, but it’s tight. “Next time.”

Neither of them argues with that. They just exchange a knowing look, something soft and easy, as I slip out the door, footsteps quick down the stairs.

The boxing gym is nearly empty when I get there, just a few stragglers lingering by the heavy bags. The place smells like sweat and rubber, the faint tang of disinfectant hanging in the air. It’s not quite deserted, but quiet enough that I can breathe.

The guy at the front desk barely looks up as I pass. There’s no sign of the owner—Marcus, finally learned his name last week—and without him around, I feel a little less like I need to prove I belong here. Not that I’ve been trying to impress him exactly, but his presence sharpens something in me. Makes me stand straighter. Hit harder.

I could leave. No one’s waiting for me. No one would care if I turned around and went home. But then Warren’s words echo again, low and sharp in the back of my mind. You blink, and it’s over.

Five words, stitched into me like thread pulled too tight.

I roll my shoulders back. I’m not leaving. I need this.

At the lockers, I wrap my hands—thumb looped first, snug over the knuckles—and make my way to the bags. The first punch lands sharp enough to jolt my wrist. The second lands harder. The third starts to feel like relief.

For a while, it’s just the rhythm. The steady pound of my fists against leather, the dull ache crawling up my arms, the sharp bite of air when I forget to breathe. No questions, no memories. Just movement. Just the weight of my own body, the crack of my knuckles finding the target.

I don’t even notice the man standing behind me until I hear his voice. “For a rookie, you’ve got a good arm.”

I turn, breathing hard.

The unexpected intruder has dark, wavy hair, a few piercings, and fingers wrapped in bandages. He’s lean but solid, the kind of build that speaks more to control than brute strength. Definitely a fighter.

“Yeah?” I drag my glove across my face. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He steps closer, his movements easy, relaxed. Not threatening. But there’s something else, too. A steadiness behind his eyes. Like he’s already studied me and decided I’m worth his time.

“You’re pulling back too soon,” he says. “That’s why you’re not landing clean.”

I frown. “I’m landing just fine.”

He shrugs, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, but you could hit harder.”

I almost laugh, but something about him stops me. He’s probably my age, maybe a year or two older, with faint shadows under his eyes and a cocky sort of confidence that says he’s been doing this for a while.

“Show me,” I demand, stepping back from the bag.

His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t hesitate. He unwinds his bandages as he moves, hands bare and calloused when he squares up beside me. “You’re cutting yourself short,” he says. “Here—step in closer.”

I do.

“Now, shift your weight,” he says, hand hovering near my shoulder. His fingers ghost along the sleeve of my shirt, and I swear I catch the hint of a smile when I glance at him. “Feel it in your hips, not just your arm. When you pull back, don’t rush. Let your knuckles sink in first.”

I follow his instructions, shifting forward again. When I throw the next punch, the sound cracks sharper—louder, more solid.

“There you go,” he says. “Better.”

I grin, just a flicker of one, but it surprises me. “Are you a trainer?”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Not yet, but I do work here.”

“Dayton student?”

“Used to be.”

“Is that right?” I pause, waiting for him to elaborate.

He doesn’t. “Keep your shoulders loose,” he says instead. “You’re too tense. You’re thinking too much.”

I huff. “Yeah, well. That’s kind of my thing.”

He snorts a laugh. “Noted. Are you here often?”

“Sometimes,” I say. “Late nights.”

He nods, like that tells him everything he needs to know. “Best time to be here. Quiet. No one watching.” His gaze flicks to the far wall of mirrors. “No one to impress.”

“Exactly,” I mutter. “I’m Quinn, by the way.”

“Gage,” he replies, offering a hand. His palm is rough against mine, fingers worn from years of whatever brought him here. “I don’t wanna ruin your flow, so . . . I’ll see ya around, yeah?”

“Sure.”

He flashes a crooked smile. “Looking forward to it.”

I don’t get the chance to answer. He’s already turning away, slipping through the ropes and stepping into the far ring like he never stopped moving. I’m not sure if he was taking a break or just saw an opening to step in and help, but either way, he’s gone now.

I stay long enough to run a few more rounds at the bag, testing the shift in my form. The way my weight settles, the way each punch sinks deeper, sharper. It feels like something’s clicked into place.

By the time I peel off my gloves, I’m drenched and breathless. My arms burn, muscles tight with effort. I stagger to the lockers, unwrap my hands, and rinse off in the grimy sink.

Once I’m done, I shove my damp clothes into my bag and step out into the night.

A light drizzle falls, warm and steady. It clings to my hair, beads along my skin, washing away the last of the sweat. I walk the few blocks home, the air thick with concrete and rain, the world quiet under the soft patter of water on pavement.

When I reach my apartment, I’m calmer, looser, but still carrying a restlessness I can’t shake. The girls’ doors are shut, a faint glow slipping out from beneath their frames. The place feels hushed, still holding the warmth of their earlier movie night—popcorn in the air, a half-empty wineglass on the counter.

Eventually, I sit at my desk and open my laptop. It’s the middle of the night, but I’ve been behind on my own assignments while juggling TA work. I open a new Word doc. The blinking cursor stares back, steady and taunting. It’s for my first-week assignment in creative writing.

I thought I could knock it out in an hour or two. Something simple. Reflective. Personal. A small moment meant to reveal something bigger.

I know what I want to say. Or at least I think I do. But the words keep slipping sideways, never landing quite right. My fingers hover over the keys, then drop away again.

I lean back, dragging both hands through my hair. Just write something. Anything.

But all I can think about is Warren’s paper.

It’s still sitting on my desk, the edges crumpled and curling like a frown beneath the others. I pull it from the pile and smooth it flat against my knee. This time, I don’t let it blur past like a blink or a passing thought. I let it sit. I let it settle in, slow and sharp.

The ache of knowing you had more time than you thought, and still wasting it.

That’s the part that gets me. The part that makes my chest go tight because I know what that ache feels like. Acutely, desperately.

And that twisting realization hits me again. Warren has always been the one person I never had to pretend with. Even when we were fighting, snapping at each other across the dish pit, stealing glances during breaks, needling each other just to pass the time, it was always real.

With him, I could be sharp and soft in the same breath, restless and steady all at once. Somehow, he always understood. He saw me. Not just the polished version I showed everyone else but the pieces I could never quite hide.

I’ve spent two and a half years pretending I don’t miss him. These past few weeks pushing him toward me and then pulling away like I can’t decide what I want.

And now, with his careful words pressed against my lap, I sit completely still. My phone rests in one hand, the screen glowing dimly. My thumb hovers over his name in my contacts like it might give me clarity, like tapping it could make the decision for me.

But the truth is, I’ve already made up my mind. Because when it comes to him, I don’t have to wonder. I never did.