Chapter 116 Letting Go
Malia's POV
The back of campus is my new refuge.
There is a tiny courtyard behind the oldest academic building—a pair of brick walls covered in ivy, a few worn-down benches, a fountain long neglected to serve its purpose of watering plants. Students are seldom seen here. Too out of the way. Too quiet. Too devoid of the social lubricants that make places popular ones.
Right for me.
I take a seat at the opposite end of the bench, my textbooks lying scattered next to me as I blatantly ignore them. Instead, I take out my phone— the one I’ve been staying away from to avoid the incessant reminders of my ruined life.
Turn it on. Signaling their arrival, some notifications are already coming in.
They do. All right, score one dozen more. Mostly from July and Freddy. A few messages from numbers I don't know. One from Dr. Morrison's Office telling me about my mandatory counseling appointment tomorrow.
And a few social media notices I’ve already told myself I am not going to look at.
But I log on to it anyway. Lydia’s page comes up right away — still public, still airing her perfect life to anyone who wants to look. New posts since this morning. With numb fingers I scroll through them. A shot of her and Aiden at a cafe.
His arm around her shoulders. Both clutching matching coffee cups. Caption: Best study partner
Next photo: Interior of his car again. Her hand on the gearshift. His hand covering hers.Caption: Going places together
Up Next: Them strolling across campus. Golden hour light making everything look romantic and like a done deal. Caption: When you know you know.
It has hundreds of likes on each photo. Comments from her friends. From students I know. From people who have never talked to either of them but believe they have a right to an opinion.
You two are perfect together! Finally! We've been shipping this forever
I stare at the screen until the pictures are blurry.
He's moved on. Completely. Out in the open. Three days and he’s already planting the seeds of a new relationship on the grave of ours.
It doesn't matter if Lydia's using him or not.
He’s choosing to be there. Choosing to smile for photos. Letting her wear his clothes and hold his hand and—Choosing to let her wear his clothes and hold his hand and—
Footsteps.
I slam the phone face-down on my lap, wiping at my eyes quickly.
"Malia?"
Rowan's voice. Gentle. Uncertain.
I look up. A few feet away, he is standing with his hands in his jacket pockets, his expression wary. As if he is coming close to some wounded animal that might run away.
How long has he been there? How much did he see?
"Hey," I manage
"Hey. He motions to the bench. “Mind if I sit?"
I should say yes. Should send him away. Should be the distance I’ve been so carefully building up.
But it's Rowan. Quiet, steady Rowan who's never asked for anything from me, never made me feel like I needed to perform or prove or be anything other than what I am.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He sits, with a polite distance between us. Doesn't immediately launch into conversation. Just sits with me in the quiet, as he always has.
Finally, “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’ve been hiding.” Honesty seems easier than lying right now.
“I noticed.” A slight smile twitches his lips. “You’re good at it. It took me three days to know this place.”
"I'm sorry"
"Don't be." He shifts slightly, rotating toward me. "I get it. You're drowning and everyone wants to know if you're okay when clearly you're not."
Saying that is all so accurate that it makes my throat close up.
"How are you holding up?" he asks. “And I really mean that. Not the polite lie one.”
I look at my hands. At the textbooks I haven’t opened. At the phone still face-down, concealing traces of my obsessive spiral.
"I'm—" The words stick. "Not great."
“Yeah. I guessed.” He is silent for a moment. “For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you. For any of it.”
I jerk my head up. "What?"
“The video. The fight with Lydia. Even the thing with Victoria—” He raises a hand as I begin to object. “I’m not saying that it was right. I mean, I’m not saying it was right. I’m just saying I understand how it went down. You were pushed to breaking point and you—broke. That’s human. Or hybrid. Or anything like that.”
Tears prick my eyes. "Everybody else blames me."
“Not everyone.” His voice is authoritative. “Cian doesn’t. I do not. Even Aiden—” He pauses, his jaw tightening. “Aiden’s hurt and he’s making terrible decisions. But that’s on him.”
“He called me a mistake.” The words are spoken just above a whisper.
“I know. I was there.” Rowan turns hard. “And I told him later that was bullshit. We all did. But he’s—” He fumbles for the words. “He’s stubborn. And proud. And convinced he’s supposed to be mad, because being hurt is too exposed.”
“Because he dates Lydia to get his own back at me.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just trying to move on and she’s there and willing and—” He stops. “I don’t know what he’s thinking. Not that he’s talking to any of us much either.”
That surprises me. “He’s not?”
“No. He’s —” Rowan runs a hand through his hair. “Distant. Going through motions. Spending all his time with Lydia and her crowd. It’s like he’s replaced all of us, not just you.”
The information should make me feel better. It doesn't.
“Anyway,” Rowan continues, “I didn’t come here to talk about Aiden. I came because—” He takes out a folder from his backpack. “You’re drowning academically too, right? Vesper's assignments?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“I can help with that.” He said. “I took her class last year. I made an A. I know her style, what she’s looking for, how to make arguments she will actually accept.”
“Rowan, you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” He speaks softly, but firmly. “Look, everything’s moving too fast right now. The breakup, the probation, the social media shit—it’s all too much. But the school stuff? That I can actually help with.”
My chest tightens with gratitude and guilt. “I don’t deserve—”
“Stop.” He cuts me off. “You keep saying that. That you don’t deserve help. That you are toiling in suffering on your own. You made mistakes. So has everyone else. That doesn’t mean you’re entitled to fail.”
The tears I’ve been holding back fall out.
"I’ll always be here for you,” Rowan says quietly. “Even if you don’t realize it. Even if you push me off. Even if—” He stops, choosing words carefully. “Even if things are complicated right now. You’re still ours. That doesn't change.”
“The Principal said I have to stay away from students who complained,” I confess. “That means don’t come near you guys to keep my distance–”
“Fuck that.” There’s a hard edge in Rowan’s voice that I don’t often hear. “We didn’t file complaints. July and Freddy didn’t. It is not us who are the problem. "And if aiding you in your studies is against some bullshit rule, then—" He shrugs. "Let them try."
A watery laugh escapes me. “You’re going to get in trouble,”
“Good. I’m bored anyway.” He grins, then sobers. "Seriously though. Let me help. Tutoring sessions. Study groups. Whatever you need to keep that scholarship."
I feel like saying no. My wish is to keep isolated. Wanting to shield him from my chaos.
But I'm just tired of doing this whole thing alone.
"Okay," I say softly. "Thank you."
He nods, satisfied. He opens the folder and takes out notes—detailed, color-coded, obviously tailored to my needs.
The phone on the bench lights up. A new notification. We both see it.
Yet another photo from Lydia. This is a photo of Aiden laughing at something off the camera while looking laid back and happy and like he had moved on.
Rowan sees my face. Sees how I break apart before I can cover it up.
He reaches over and takes my hand, pressing his palm against mine. He takes my hand, gently so.
Says nothing. Just holds on.
And that simple act, that wordless recognition of my suffering, that refusal to downplay or dismiss or tell me that I shouldn't feel — opens something inside of me.
I squeeze back. Manage a small, broken smile.
“Thank you,” I say again.
“Always.” Simple. Certain.
Like that for a moment—hands linked, the weight of all the unspoken and unacknowledged emotions between us.
Rowan then pulls out a pen, taps the first page of notes, and says, “Okay. Let's save your scholarship."
And I allow myself to believe that perhaps - just maybe - I‹m not supposed to do this alone - for the first time in days, and I allow myself to believe that – just perhaps – I'm going to be okay.
—--
It had been harder to live at Mooncrest than I ever would have thought. Lonelier. More brutal. The kind of hard that takes pieces of you and doesn't knock first.
I thought I could do it on my own. Considered isolation was security. Thought staying everyone at arm's length would keep them safe from the train wreck I’d become.
But maybe—just maybe—I had it all wrong.
Perhaps to survive was not to endure in silence but to be taciturn. Maybe accepting help when offered is part of survival. Perhaps survival was letting people carry you even when you were absolutely certain you didn’t deserve it.
I was not ready to tell this story. The pain was too drugged up. But maybe it was time for someone else to take up the story.
Someone who understood what I so clearly did not—that this was not simply a story about breaking. That’s also who I will bring with me; the people who didn’t want me to break alone.
Who recognizes that sometimes the most important part of any story is not the protagonist’s journey—but the witnesses to the truth. So maybe this is where I take a step back.
Where I let Rowan, or July, or even Cian take the narrative thread I’ve been clutching so tightly.
Because I’m still here, still fighting, still surviving. But I’m not sure I can trust myself to tell this story fairly. Not when I’m still living in the wreckage. Not when I can’t see beyond the next day, the next assignment, the next moment of just holding on. Time for someone else to carry this.
Someone else's take on how we lived through what came next. Because we did survive.
Even if I couldn't see it yet.
Even now as I sit on this bench with Rowan's hand held tight in mine and the notes of Vesper scattered in front of us, the only thing I can feel is how much I've lost.
Someone else was going to have to tell you how we made the way back. If we made our way back.
I just had to keep breathing, I just had to keep breathing until we got there.
For the day. One small kindness at a time.
Beginning with Rowan's steady presence and the quiet promise that I wasn't as alone as I had believed.
That had to be enough. Yes, for now, it had to be enough.