“Life’s too short for polite lies.”
I realize how they sound coming from someone who tried to end their life. Carter shifts uncomfortably.
“I should go,” I say, standing abruptly. “I have class.”
“Maya, wait—” Carter starts.
But I’m already grabbing my bag, already heading for the door, already running from the truth I accidentally spoke.
Life’s too short.
Unless you’re the one who tried to make it shorter.
I skip psychology class. Can’t handle another lecture about depression and suicide statistics, can’t sit in that room pretending to be a normal student learning about abnormal psychology when I’m the case study they’re describing.
Instead, I find myself at the campus art building, standing outside the photography studio I’ve been avoiding since I arrived.
Pick up a camera again, Carter said. Start over.
My hands are shaking as I push open the door.
The studio is empty this early, just rows of equipment and the faint smell of chemicals from the darkroom. I haven’t been in a space like this since before. Since I still had dreams and plans and a future that involved more than just surviving.
“Can I help you?”
I turn to see a woman in her thirties, paint-stained jeans, kind eyes.
“I’m… I was looking for the photography club?”
“You found it. Well, you found me. I’m Professor Smith I run the club.” She extends her hand. “You’re new?”
“Maya Lynch. Freshman.”
“Welcome, Maya. We meet Wednesdays at seven. Very casual, just people who love photography talking about photography and occasionally taking photos.” She smiles. “You photograph?”
“I used to.”
“What changed?”
Everything. My entire life. My will to live.
“Just… stuff,” I say lamely.
Professor Smith studies me with the kind of look that suggests she sees more than I’m saying. “Well, if you want to start again, we’d love to have you. No pressure, no judgment. Just cameras and creativity.”
“Okay. Maybe I’ll come.”
“I hope you do.”
I leave before she can ask more questions, but something small and fragile has shifted in my chest. Hope, maybe. Or just the memory of what hope used to feel like.
My phone buzzes. Text from
Carter
Ryder’s asking about you. Wants to know if you’re okay.
That’s… unexpected.
