Chapter 117
Summer's POV
The train rocked gently as it pulled away from Penn Station, and I pressed my forehead against the cold window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and white. My reflection stared back at me—hollow-eyed, too thin, the kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix. The Juilliard winter intensive had stripped me down to bare nerves and muscle memory, two weeks of ten-hour days that left my fingers raw and my body running on fumes.
I'd lost weight. Enough that the performance dress they'd given me for the final showcase had hung loose around my waist, the fabric gaping at my ribs until I'd borrowed a needle and thread from another student and spent twenty minutes in the bathroom before curtain call, stitching the seams tighter so I wouldn't look like a child playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. Standing in front of that mirror, I'd seen my collarbones jutting sharp beneath the neckline, my face gaunt in a way that made my eyes look too big, too desperate. It should have scared me. In my first life, it would have—I would've spiraled into that familiar loop of self-hatred and control, weighing myself three times a day and logging every calorie like evidence in a trial I was determined to lose.
But this time, all I'd felt was a strange, detached relief. Young bodies bounce back, I'd thought, tugging the dress into place. I'll eat when I get home. I'll sleep. I'll be fine. The difference unsettled me more than the weight loss itself.
I pulled out my phone, the screen lighting up with a notification from Mia—a string of heart emojis and a photo she'd taken of the Polaroids I'd mailed her from New York. We'd all been trading them, the Juilliard kids, signing each other's instant photos with Sharpies and inside jokes I'd already half-forgotten. I'd picked out the best ones before I left, the shots where the stage lights made me look like I belonged there, and decorated the borders with tiny painted music notes and stars, trying to make something beautiful out of the exhaustion.
I opened my messages with Kieran. The cursor blinked at me, mocking.
He'd been distant. Not silent—he still sent the occasional text, usually late at night, brief check-ins that felt more like obligations than conversation. How's the program going? Don't forget to eat. Practical. Careful. Like he was talking to someone he barely knew. Five days ago, I'd sent him a long message about the rehearsal schedule, how one of the guest professors had made me cry during a masterclass, how I'd played through it anyway and he'd nodded at the end like I'd finally done something right. I'd tried to sound upbeat, like I was thriving, like this was exactly what I needed.
Kieran had replied three days later: Good luck with the final performance.
That was it. No follow-up questions, no encouragement, nothing that suggested he cared whether I succeeded or failed. Just a polite, distant wish, the kind you'd give to an acquaintance.
I stared at the message thread now, my chest tight, and scrolled up past the recent coldness until I found what I was looking for—the texts from the airport, right before I'd boarded the flight to New York. My own message stared back at me: I'll miss you. And beneath it, his reply, sent just minutes later: I'll miss you too.
I'll miss you too.
My throat closed up. I remembered the way my heart had soared when I'd seen those words, how I'd clutched my phone to my chest in the middle of the boarding line like a lifeline, how I'd read them over and over during the flight until the screen went dark. He'd said he'd miss me. He'd promised, in his careful, measured way, that this distance wouldn't change anything between us.
So what the hell had happened?
The train swayed, and I gripped my phone harder, my eyes burning as I stared at that message. I'll miss you too. The words felt like a lie now, or maybe just something he'd said because it was easier than the truth—that whatever fragile thing we'd been building had already started to crumble the moment I'd left Boston. That maybe he'd never meant it at all.
I wanted to ask him. I wanted to demand an explanation, to know why he'd pulled away so completely when he'd promised he wouldn't, whether I'd done something wrong or if this was just who he was—someone who gave you pieces of himself and then took them back without warning, someone who said beautiful things and then disappeared behind walls you couldn't climb.
Instead, I pulled up the photo I'd been too afraid to send him. It was one of the Polaroids, me and Sarah, the senior translator who'd helped with the Vienna professor's masterclass. Sarah was stunning in that effortless way some people were, all long dark hair and sharp cheekbones, her smile warm and genuine as she leaned into the frame beside me. I looked happy in the photo. Lighter. Like I'd forgotten, just for a second, how heavy everything felt.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I typed: Just finished the program! This is me with Sarah, she's a senior at Juilliard and was our translator for the masterclass with the guest professor from Vienna. She's really pretty, right? But she's married already haha. What do you think?
I hit send before I could delete it.
The message showed as read almost immediately, and my heart jumped. I watched the screen, waiting for the three dots that would mean he was typing, that he was going to say something, anything that would make this awful distance feel smaller, that would prove that "I'll miss you too" hadn't been just empty words.
The dots didn't come.
I locked my phone and shoved it into my coat pocket, my face burning. Stupid. It was such a stupid message, so transparently desperate, fishing for a reaction I had no right to expect. What did I think he was going to say? That he was jealous? That he missed me? That he still cared at all, the way he'd seemed to care when he'd stood under that umbrella in the rain and told me he wanted to be in the same city as me?
The train rumbled on through the dark, and I closed my eyes, trying to will away the sick twist in my stomach. Around me, other passengers dozed or scrolled through their phones, oblivious. The couple across the aisle shared a bag of chips, their knees touching, easy and comfortable in a way that made my throat ache.
By the time I got home, it was almost midnight. The house was dark except for the porch light Mom had left on, and I dragged my suitcase up the front steps, my whole body screaming for sleep. The guest room bed had fresh sheets—Mom must have changed them while I was gone—and the faint smell of lavender detergent hit me as I collapsed face-first into the pillows.
My phone buzzed.
I grabbed for it so fast I nearly dropped it, my heart pounding as I opened the message.
Kieran: Not really.
I stared at the screen, my chest hollowing out. Not really. Two words. That was all he had to say after two weeks of silence, after I'd spent the entire train ride dissecting every interaction we'd ever had, after I'd sent him a photo that was so obviously a plea for attention it made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
Not really.
Like Sarah wasn't pretty. Like the photo didn't matter. Like I didn't matter.
I turned my phone face-down on the nightstand and pulled the blankets over my head, my eyes hot and dry. The exhaustion crashed over me all at once, bone-deep and suffocating, and I let it drag me under because it was easier than thinking about the boy who'd said he'd miss me and then spent two weeks proving he didn't.