And for a second, I let myself enjoy it. Let myself laugh with my teammates and hug my mom tight enough she couldn’t breathe. Let myself believe this moment was allowed to be happy.
But I kept checking my phone.
Nothing.
No “congrats.” No “saw your name on the graduation program.”
Not even a stupid joking picture. And yeah, I knew that sounded dumb, but she used to send me the most unhinged memes whenever she didn’t know how to say something serious. I would’ve taken that.
Eventually, the crowd thinned. My family went to grab food, and I said I’d meet them in a bit. I just needed a minute. Alone.
I found this bench on the edge of campus. It was near the library Alana liked to study at when it rained. I sat down, diploma still in my hand like I didn’t know what to do with it. I guess part of me had pictured giving it to her, likeLook, I made it.
Like it was proof I wasn’t the guy everyone thought I was. That I could be more.
But it was just me and the wind and this stupid piece of paper now.
I leaned back, closed my eyes for a second, and let the silence swallow me. No cheering. No cameras. No fake smiles.
Just… missing her.
Because she should’ve been here. For everything. For the late-night freak-outs, the 7:00 a.m. coffee run, and the stupid group photo with the mascot. For the speech where I was too nervous to look up, and for the part when I walked across the stage and wished like hell she was watching.
It wasn’t just about wanting her to see me win. It was about wanting her there because she mattered. Because she changed everything. Because when I look back on this part of my life—the late nights, the hard losses, the wins, the confusion, the panic—she’s stitched into all of it.
I don’t know how you’re supposed to celebrate when the thing you care about most feels gone.
I pulled out my phone again, just to look at our old texts. Scrolled up way too far, rereading her dumb jokes and the way she always corrected my grammar in lowercase.
Alana was annoying like that. It made me smile.
And then I typed out a message I didn’t send:
Wish you were here.
I stared at it for a long time. I even hovered over the “send” button.
But I didn’t press it.
I couldn’t.
Because maybe she really was done. Maybe the damage was too deep. Maybe it didn’t matter that I never cheated, or that I never even thought about anyone else.
Maybe loving someone wasn’t always enough.
So I deleted the text, shoved my phone back in my pocket, and stood up. I had a dinner to get to. A party later. People who were proud of me.
But walking away from that bench, it didn’t feel like an ending or a celebration.
It felt like something I’d never get back.
And I wasn’t sure I’d ever soar again.
52
EDEN
“Ithought you were going to stay in New City with your girlfriend until the summer break?” Mom sounded confused, yet I didn’t bother to turn around to look at her.
