Chapter 72 ~ A Favor

Chapter 72 ~ A Favor
{Clara’s POV}

Time did not move the way I needed it to.

That was the first problem.

I had expected the moment to come faster— a gap in the program, a pause in applause, a natural excuse to lean close and speak. Instead, the anniversary unfolded with stubborn order. Speakers rose. Applause followed. The lights dimmed and brightened again. The hall stayed full, attentive, structured.

And Noelle stayed exactly where she was.

She didn’t fidget. She didn’t look around for exits. She didn’t scan the room the way people do when they’re waiting for something to interrupt them. She listened when listening was expected. She clapped when clapping was appropriate. She nodded at the right moments, detached but present.

Untouchable.

I sat several rows behind her and watched the back of her head as if it were a locked door. Every instinct in me wanted to rush it— to close the distance, to force the moment before it slipped away. But rushing had cost me earlier. Loudness had cost me. Need had cost me.

So I waited.

I learned, very early in this city, that power belonged to the person who could afford patience.

The hall eventually loosened. People shifted in their seats. A short intermission was announced and conversations rose in low waves as attendees stood, stretched, checked their phones. The tight focus broke just enough.

Noelle rose then, calm as ever, and moved toward the side aisle.

Not hurried. Not alone. But available.

That was when I stood.

I did not go to her immediately. I let her take a few steps, let the space around her thin. I watched Julian drift toward a group near the front, pulled into conversation by someone eager and important. I noted Leonard further back, still seated, still watching in the way men do when they’ve already lost ground but refuse to leave the field. Funny. 

I approached then.

“Noelle.”

She turned slowly. Not startled or defensive. 

“Clara,” she said. She did not look all that welcoming and that disrupted me a bit, but I pressed. 

“May I?” I asked, gesturing toward the quieter corner near the tall windows. The request was repetitive and easy to refuse.

She considered me for a moment— not my face, but the situation. The timing. The room. The reoccurrence. 

“Briefly,” she agreed and felt relief. 

Phase one completed. 

We walked side by side with no tension obvious enough for anyone to notice. To an outsider, we could have been two former classmates exchanging pleasantries.

To me, it felt like walking into a room that still remembered me.

“How has the program been for you so far?” I asked to fill the silence.

“Memorable,” Noelle replied. “Just like everything that has to do with this school.”

I nodded. 

Of course.

I stopped near the window and turned to face her. The city lights glimmered faintly through the glass, distant and indifferent. I drew a breath and let my voice soften— not weak, not broken. Controlled.

“I wanted to thank you,” I said.

“For what?” she asked.

“For agreeing to see me before,” I continued. “For listening. I know you didn’t owe me that.”

She didn’t correct me.

Silence, I’d learned, could be permission if used sparingly.

“I don’t mean to bug you but as I said earlier, my life hasn’t been… static,” I started. “And there’s really no fix for this because I brought this upon myself but then a favor can assist in a way because I really have no anchor. And I need one.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly. Not cruel. Curious.

“And the favor?” she asked.

Direct.

I let a fraction of my frustration bleed through— just enough to look human.

I sighed. “I don’t want to hope,” I said quickly. “I know better than that. I wouldn’t presume.”

I sighed again. 

“The thing is; I only wanted to stand with you when you’re called up on stage,” I continued. “Not beside the microphone. Just… present. Visible. As a sign that whatever happened between us didn’t end in exile.”

I watched her closely now. The smallest reactions mattered.

She did not respond immediately.

“You understand how that would look,” she said at last.

“Yes,” I replied. “That’s the point.”

Her eyes searched my face, not for emotion, but for intent. I could feel the rage coiled beneath my ribs due to her pride. It was pressing to be released but I kept it leashed.

“And you wouldn’t speak,” she said again.

“I wouldn’t,” I said. “Not unless you asked me to. I would stand. Nothing more.”

She studied me for a long moment.

“Why tonight?” she asked.

Because this was the only stage left.

Because relevance is oxygen.

Because watching you rise without me is unbearable.

But I didn’t say any of that.

“Because this place matters,” I said instead. “To both of us. And because people remember stories better when they see them whole.”

She exhaled slowly, as if weighing not my words but the cost of denying them.

“If I agree,” she said, “you don’t interpret it as forgiveness.”

“I wouldn’t,” I said quickly. “I’d interpret it as civility.”

“And you don’t speak,” she added.

“I don’t speak.”

“And afterward,” she continued, “we return to our separate lives on casual terms.”

That stung.

“Yes,” I said.

She nodded once, as if confirming a calculation.

“Fine,” she said. “You can stand with me. Briefly. No deviation.”

Relief surged sharp and sudden, nearly breaking my composure. I swallowed it down.

“Thank you,” I said.

She turned away before I could say anything else.

I watched her walk back toward her seat, posture unchanged, presence intact. She did not look back.

For a moment, I let myself smile.

She thought she had granted something small. She thought she was allowing closure.

She had no idea how much weight visibility carried in a room like this. How memory could be rearranged with the right angle, the right silence— the right question asked at the wrong time…

The program resumed. People returned to their seats and the lights dimmed again.

From where I stood, I could see Noelle settle back into her place, Julian beside her, Leonard still watching from the shadows. The triangle tightened, invisible to them, clear to me.

Fools. 

I took my seat slowly, heart racing now, hate humming beneath my skin.

She thought she had managed me.

She thought she had contained the past.

I rested my hands in my lap and stared at the stage, already imagining the shift— the moment when the room would hold its breath, when all eyes would turn, when the story would finally be corrected.

Let her have the mic.

I would take the moment.

And this time, I would not be erased…