Chapter 21 Circling back to you
Despite spending my days surrounded by teenagers, I barely remember what it felt like to be one myself. The years blur strangely when I try to reach back. Part of it is the cancer....the way it carved clean lines through my memory, slicing before and after into two incompatible lives. Part of it is what came after.....the sense that my body aged faster than my mind could keep up.
But it gave me something too. An edge.
When you’ve spent years learning how to read doctors’ faces before they speak, you get good at noticing what isn’t said. That skill transfers easily to teenagers....kids who are always carrying something. Most of the time, it’s small things. Friend drama blown into catastrophe. A bad grade treated like the end of the world. First heartbreaks dressed up as existential crises.
And then sometimes, it’s something else entirely. Something worth stopping for.
That’s Chloe Sanders.
She’s sitting across from me now, perched stiffly in the chair in front of my desk. I asked her to stay after class. Chloe always sits in the back row, tucked into the corner where the wall meets the window, like she’s trying to erase herself from the room. Her grades have slipped in slow increments, nothing dramatic enough to set off alarms. Just enough to notice if you’re paying attention.
I am.
I’ve noticed the way she flinches when someone raises their voice, even jokingly. The oversized hoodie she wears no matter the weather, sleeves pulled down over her hands. The faint shadows under her eyes that don’t belong to someone who’s just staying up too late on her phone. The smell of stale smoke clinging to her clothes some days.....not hers, I’d bet.
She won’t meet my eyes. Keeps picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. Some teenagers are loud when they want attention. Chloe is quiet in a way that feels defensive.
I don’t start softly. I’ve learned that softness can feel like a trap to some people.
“You slept through my lesson again.”
She flinches like I’ve raised my voice, even though I haven’t, eyes fixed on the floor between her shoes.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is thinned out. Then, after a pause that stretches just a little too long, she asks, “Am I in trouble?”
The fear slips through before she can stop it, lodged in the question itself.
I shake my head immediately. “No. You’re not in trouble.” I keep my tone level. “That’s not why I asked you to stay.”
She doesn’t look up.
“I just wanted to check in,” I add. “See how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine.” The answer snaps into place like it’s been waiting its turn. I don’t argue with her. I don’t smile, either. I’ve noticed that smiling makes her nervous, like she’s trying to figure out what it costs. Classes are over, I can feel her counting seconds.
“How are things at home?” I ask. “Everything okay there?”
That gets her attention. She looks up at me then, finally, and for a split second her face fractures. I catch something tangled and messy....fear, defensiveness, exhaustion, something like anger turned inward. It’s all there at once, layered so tightly it’s hard to separate one emotion from the next.
Then it’s gone.
She nods. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
I don’t believe her, but belief isn’t the point. She glances toward the door, then back again. “I need to get home,” she says. “Can I go?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”
She moves fast, like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind. Her hand reaches the door handle before I speak again.
“Hey.”
She freezes, like an animal deciding whether to bolt. I don’t lower my voice dramatically. I keep it the way I’d want someone to speak to me if I were already carrying too much.
“If something’s wrong, if you’re not actually fine....” I pause, choosing the words carefully. “You don’t have to sit with it alone.”
Her fingers tighten around the handle.
“It doesn’t have to be me,” I continue. “Just.... someone. Someone you trust. A friend. A teacher. Anyone who listens without making you feel small for needing to talk.”
She doesn’t turn around.
“There are things people get very good at surviving,” I say quietly. “So good that everyone else assumes they’re handling it. But that isn’t the same as being okay. And you don’t owe silence to anyone.”
I watch her shoulders rise and fall once. A breath she didn’t know she was holding. For a moment, I think she might say something. Instead, she nods again, smaller this time, and pulls the door open.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, almost too low to hear. Then she’s gone, swallowed by the noise of the hallway.
I stay where I am for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring at the empty doorway, already knowing this probably won’t be the last time we talk.
I then start packing up my things. It’s busywork, my hands keeping pace with thoughts that won’t sit still. The room is empty now, but my head is loud.
I’ll go home, shower...change. Try to look like I didn’t overthink every possible outfit for a casual dinner that was my idea.
Michael and I have been texting all day, nothing important, which somehow makes it feel important. I suggested we meet at around seven like it was nothing. Like my pulse hadn’t picked up just typing it. Like I didn’t reread the message three times before sending.
Now the nerves hit properly.
It’s this strange, buoyant feeling. Like something light and reckless has lodged itself in my chest. I feel almost stupid with it. Giddy is the only word that fits, and I don’t like how much it does. I don’t like how unfamiliar it feels, how unguarded.
I catch myself smiling as I zip my bag shut. I sling it over my shoulder, grab the last folder meant for the official staffroom, and turn toward the door. My steps feel quicker than usual, lighter. I’m almost at the doorway when someone peeks inside.
Michael.
Just his head at first, cautious, like he’s not sure he’s interrupting something. His eyes find mine instantly and I stop dead. My heart slams into my ribs like it’s been caught doing something it shouldn’t. Heat rushes up my neck.
For half a second, neither of us says anything. Then his mouth curves, “Hey.”
I swallow, adjust my grip on the bag strap like it’s betrayed me. “Hey.”
I’m painfully aware of how ridiculous this is, how a simple moment has knocked the air out of me. He steps fully into the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
His blue eyes sweep over the space first before settling on me. When they do, something in his expression shifts, like the rest of the room stops mattering.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, even though my body already knows the answer. “We were supposed to meet later.”
“I know.” He slips his hands into his pockets, shoulders relaxed. Then he takes a step closer. Just one, but it almost cuts the distance in half. “I just couldn’t wait.”
There’s a quiet chuckle, almost self-conscious, and he gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “I asked some kids where you were. Most of them ignored me. The ones who didn’t were impressively bad at giving directions. I checked at least five other classes before I found you.”
I stare at him. “You could get into trouble if you keep showing up here like this.”
“I didn’t though,” he says easily. “I waited outside till classes ended.”
I blink. “You what?”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. My brain scrambles to catch up. “For how long?”
He tilts his head, thinking. “About an hour.”
An hour.
The word echoes, heavy and disorienting. “You waited an hour?” I repeat, stupidly.
I don’t know what to do with that kind of intent.
“Yeah.” His gaze doesn’t waver. There’s no defensiveness there. Just honesty, bare and a little dangerous.
“I haven’t been able to think about anything else today,” he says instead. “I told myself I’d be normal about it. Wait till seven. Be patient.” A breath leaves him, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Turns out I’m weaker than I thought. So I said fuck it.”
His eyes move over me slowly before he looks back up at my face. “What did you do to me?” he asks quietly. “Because no matter how hard I try to redirect, to think about anything else....I keep circling right back to you.”