Chapter 73 And then what?
The bell rings. Chairs scrape, zippers drag.
“Read ahead like we agreed,” I say, leaning back against the edge of the desk because sitting feels safer than standing too straight. I'll know if you don’t.”
A chorus of exaggerated groans.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Ashbrook!”
I smile, nod, wave them off. The door swings open and shut in bursts until the noise thins, drains, fades.
My eyes find Chloe Sanders.
She’s slower than the others. Methodical. Like she’s calculating every movement before she commits to it. I watch her bend and lift her backpack. It looks wrong. Too full. Too heavy for someone her size. She hoists it onto her right shoulder and her face tightens immediately, a flicker of pain she tries to swallow, and she shifts it to the left instead.
She’s thinner.
Not the normal teenage fluctuation. Thinner in the way something is being steadily taken from her.
“Chloe.”
My voice comes out softer than I intend. She looks up.
“I’d like a word.”
The last two students glance between us, curious, then slip out the door. It clicks shut. The hallway noise becomes distant... lockers slamming, laughter echoing, life moving forward.
She doesn’t come to me, so I push myself off the desk and walk toward her instead. Each step feels heavier now that the adrenaline’s gone. I stop a couple of steps away, giving her space.
“I just wanted to check in,” I say.
She nods once.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m okay.”
The words are small and automatic. The same lie I gave several minutes ago. I study her face. The faint shadows under her eyes. The way her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag.
“Are you getting enough rest?” I ask gently. “You seem tired.”
A shrug. Barely there.
“Just studying a lot. Midterms.”
I nod like that makes sense. Like that explains the hollowness around her eyes.
“That’s good.”
She keeps fiddling with the strap. Twisting it. Untwisting it. And it hits me, with a weight that’s almost cruel, that I might be the only one noticing. The only one asking. And there might come a time, soon, when I won’t be able to. When I won’t be here to see the way her shoulder dips under that bag. Or the way her smile never quite reaches her eyes. When I won’t be here at all.
And then what?....
Then she disappears quietly into herself. Into the machinery of this place. Into a world that keeps taking and taking and never once asks if she can afford the loss. It’s already siphoning something out of her.
And she lets it. Because she doesn’t seem to know she’s allowed not to.
“Chloe,” I say again, softer.
She looks up. Really looks at me this time. I hold her gaze.
“Forgive me,” I say, “But I don't think you are okay.”
She stiffens at that. The room feels too still. Dust drifting in the afternoon light. My pulse loud in my ears. She swallows.
“I am,” she insists, but it’s weaker now. Less certain.
“I know what it looks like when someone says they’re fine because it’s easier than explaining why they’re not,” I say, and I do. God, I do.
Her fingers stop moving.
“You don’t have to tell me everything,” I add. “Or anything. But you don’t have to pretend with me.”
There’s something fragile in the air...not her, just the moment.
“I’m just tired,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say.
And I mean more than sleep. For a second, I imagine a future classroom without me. Her sitting in the back row, quieter each month. Teachers rotating in and out. No one catching the subtle shifts. No one asking twice. The thought feels like standing on the edge of something bottomless.
“I won’t push,” I tell her. “But I will keep asking.”
She looks away.
“How are things at home?” I ask gently. “Who do you stay with?”
She blinks, like the question catches her off guard. Her gaze drifts toward the window before she answers.
“My older sister.”
I nod slowly. “And your parents?”
There’s a small pause. Not long. Just enough to measure.
“My dad moved to Texas a couple of years ago.”
She hesitates after that, eyes flicking back to me, assessing. Deciding.
“His girlfriend got pregnant,” she adds, quieter. “So.... they moved.”
I don’t comment. I don’t let my face change. But I can see it in her expression.... she knows what I’m going to ask next. And she doesn’t want me to. I see the resistance. The almost-plea.
And still....
“And your mum?” I ask softly. “Where is she?”
In my head, I’ve already written the answer.
Dead.
Of course she would be. Because lately that’s how it goes. Death has been circling me for weeks now, brushing against the edges of everything.... hospital corridors, blood results, quiet late-night thoughts. I brace myself for it. For the confirmation. For the way I’ll nod and murmur something steady while internally cataloging yet another place loss has rooted itself.
And then I’ll go home and think about it for hours. About how death seems to recognize me even when I’m not actively looking for it.
But Chloe just says, “She’s not feeling too well.”
Not dead. My breath leaves me slowly.
“Can I ask what’s wrong?” I say, careful, neutral.
She looks away immediately. “She’ll be okay soon. She just needs some time to get better.”
It’s a non-answer. Which is still an answer, so I nod. Time. The vaguest currency, the one thing none of us actually controls.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “And your sister’s taking care of things?”
Another nod. Smaller this time. Her fingers tighten on the strap of her bag again. Defensive. Protective. As if the weight on her shoulders isn’t just books.
“How old is she, your sister?”
Chloe pauses. Not the normal kind of pause, not the kind where you’re searching memory. This one feels measured. As if she’s deciding what version of the truth is safest.
“Twenty-three,” she says finally. Then, quickly, almost defensively, “She has a job.”
I nod once at the extra detail I didn’t ask for.
“What kind of job?”