Chapter 107
Summer's POV
I woke up to the sound of my alarm cutting through the December darkness like a blade. Six-thirty. The radiator clanked and hissed in the corner of my room, but the air still felt cold enough to see my breath. I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, my chest tight with something I couldn't name.
It had been three weeks since Symphony Hall. Three weeks since I'd found those flowers—Endless Summer hydrangeas, ridiculous and beautiful and so expensive they made my stomach hurt when I thought about what they must have cost him. Three weeks since I'd last really talked to Kieran, beyond the careful distance we maintained in physics class, the polite nods in hallways that felt like tiny deaths.
I rolled over and looked at the flowers on my nightstand. They were starting to wilt now, petals browning at the edges, but I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. Every morning I woke up to them, and every morning I remembered the way my hands had shaken when I'd read that card. Congratulations. Such a simple word. But from him, it meant everything.
My phone buzzed. A text from Mom: Early meeting. Breakfast in the kitchen. Love you.
I pushed myself up, my body protesting. The schedule I'd kept these past weeks was catching up with me—6:30am piano practice, full school day, orchestra rehearsals three times a week until eight, homework until midnight. My physics tutor, Mr. Moore, had started looking at me with concern during our Saturday sessions at Quantum Tutoring, asking if I was sleeping enough. I'd lied and said yes.
The truth was, I barely slept at all. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Kieran's face in the rain. Felt his mouth on mine, desperate and trembling. Heard him say I can't be what you need like it was a fact, not a fear.
I got dressed in the dark, pulling on my St. Jude's winter uniform—the navy wool coat, the plaid scarf, the pleated skirt I still rolled up despite Mom's protests about the cold. I'd started wearing leggings underneath most days, but today I skipped them. The bite of winter air against my legs felt like a small act of defiance, though I wasn't sure against what.
Downstairs, Mom had left out a protein smoothie and a note reminding me to eat something substantial. I drank half the smoothie standing at the counter, looking out at the Back Bay street below. Snow had fallen overnight, just enough to make everything look clean and new. The brownstones across the street had wreaths on their doors. Christmas was coming, and I felt nothing about it.
I grabbed my bag and headed out into the cold. The walk to St. Jude's took twenty minutes, and I spent most of it replaying conversations that hadn't happened. Kieran, I'm not scared of you. Kieran, please stop running. Kieran, those flowers meant something, didn't they?
But I never said any of it. In class, he sat three rows behind me now, having somehow convinced Ms. Thompson to switch seats. I felt his eyes on me sometimes, but when I turned around, he was always looking somewhere else. In the hallways, he moved like a ghost, keeping to the walls, disappearing into doorways when he saw me coming.
It was like he'd decided that kiss had never happened. Like I'd imagined the whole thing.
Except I knew I hadn't. Because sometimes, late at night, he'd text me. Nothing important—just a photo of a physics problem he thought I'd find interesting, or a link to an article about the Boston Youth Symphony. Once, he'd sent me a picture of the sunset over the Charles River with no caption at all. I'd stared at it for an hour, trying to decode what it meant.
I never replied. I didn't know what to say.
By the time I reached St. Jude's, my fingers were numb despite my gloves. The quad was covered in fresh snow, unmarred except for a few early-morning footprints heading toward the athletics building. I checked my phone—7:15. I had forty-five minutes before homeroom.
I should have gone to the music building to practice, but my hands hurt from last night's session. Instead, I found myself walking toward the science wing, toward the third-floor windows where the physics competition team held their morning training sessions.
I told myself I was just taking a different route. That I wasn't looking for him.
But when I reached the building and looked up at those windows, I saw him. Just for a second—a silhouette against the fluorescent light, his dark hair unmistakable. Then he moved away from the glass, and I was left staring at an empty window, my heart racing for no good reason.
I turned away and headed to the library instead, where I wouldn't have to think about him for a while.
---
Ms. Thompson's physics class was third period, right before lunch. I'd been dreading it all morning.
I slid into my seat near the front, pulling out my homework. Behind me, I could hear Kieran's voice, low and steady, answering Logan's question about last night's problem set. The sound of it made my chest ache. I forced myself to focus on my notes, on the equations that still didn't quite make sense despite Mr. Moore's patient explanations.
"Alright, everyone," Ms. Thompson called out, and the room settled. "Before we start today's lesson, I want to remind you that finals are in two weeks. That means it's time to start reviewing—"
I tried to pay attention. I really did. But I'd been up until two in the morning practicing Chopin, and the radiator in the classroom was pumping out heat like a furnace, and Ms. Thompson's voice had that hypnotic quality that made my eyelids feel like lead.
I propped my chin on my hand, telling myself I'd just rest my eyes for a second.
The next thing I knew, someone was poking my knee.
I jerked awake, disoriented. Mia was next to me—when had she moved there?—looking at me with concern. "You're gonna fail your finals if you keep this up," she whispered.
"I'm fine," I mumbled, sitting up straighter. My neck hurt. How long had I been out?
Ms. Thompson was at the board, writing something about Newton's Second Law. I tried to focus on the equations, but the symbols kept blurring together. My notebook was blank except for the date at the top. Great.
Ten minutes later, I was asleep again.
This time, Mia's poke was harder. "Summer. Come on."
"Sorry," I whispered back, rubbing my eyes. "I'm just tired."
"You've been tired for three weeks." Mia's voice was gentle but firm. "What's going on?"
I couldn't tell her. Couldn't explain that I was pushing myself this hard because I needed to prove something—to Kieran, to myself, to everyone who thought I was just a rich girl playing at being serious. That I was terrified if I slowed down, I'd have to actually feel everything I'd been running from.
"Just... orchestra stuff," I said. "It's a lot."
Mia didn't look convinced, but she let it drop. For the next twenty minutes, she poked me awake every time my head started to droop, a steady rhythm of intervention that probably saved me from complete humiliation.
When the bell finally rang, I gathered my things with shaking hands. I'd absorbed exactly nothing from the lesson. Ms. Thompson would probably pull me aside soon to ask if everything was okay, and I'd have to lie to her too.
I was halfway to the door when Mia caught my arm. "Hey. Self-study period is next. You should use it to actually sleep, not just nap through class."
"I have to practice—"
"Summer." She squeezed my arm. "I'm serious. You look like you're about to collapse."
I wanted to argue, but the concern in her eyes stopped me. "Okay," I said quietly. "Maybe I'll take a break."
She smiled, relieved. "Good. I'll see you at lunch?"
"Yeah. See you."
I watched her head toward the library, then turned in the opposite direction, toward the music building. I knew I should follow her advice, but the thought of lying down made me anxious. If I stopped moving, I'd start thinking. And if I started thinking, I'd remember the way Kieran had looked at me in the rain, like I was something precious and terrifying all at once.
No. Better to keep moving. Keep practicing. Keep proving I was strong enough to handle whatever came next.
Even if I wasn't sure I believed it anymore.