Every beginning has its shadow, and every goodbye leaves an echo. Somewhere between the things we lose and the things we find... something begins.
Jace
The room didn't look like his anymore.
The walls were bare—just four pale corners echoing the ghosts of posters and teenage dreams. The bookshelf was empty, except for one worn-out graphic novel someone left behind years ago. His desk, once cluttered with energy drink cans and unfinished sketches, now sat clean, almost sterile. Like it belonged to someone else.
Jace sat on the edge of his bed, a hoodie in his lap—navy blue, frayed at the cuffs, worn thin at the elbows. He'd been wearing it the night he got his acceptance letter. He almost threw it out last week, but the idea of letting it go felt wrong. Like closing a chapter he wasn't ready to finish.
His mom stood in the doorway, arms crossed, smiling that too-tight smile she wore when she was trying not to cry.
"You almost done?" she asked.
"Yeah. Just... thinking."
She nodded, then stepped away without pushing. That was her gift—knowing when to hover, and when to let silence do the talking.
Jace looked around one last time, his chest tight in that hard-to-name way. Like you know you're moving on, but a piece of you isn't coming with.
He reached for the small picture frame still resting on his nightstand: his mom, his brother, and him—standing in front of a sad-looking Christmas tree, grinning like idiots. He tucked the photo into the front pocket of his bag, zipped it closed, and exhaled.
The only thing heavier than a suitcase is the life you're not sure how to leave behind.
-----
Lianore "Lia"
Rain.
Of course it had to rain.
The sky sagged low, heavy and grey, like it couldn't decide whether to weep or just press down on the earth until it gave out. Lia stood under a crooked black umbrella, her fingers white against the handle, her knuckles stiff. The wind tugged at her hair and the hem of her dress, but she didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
The coffin was already in the ground, but people still hovered—some crying, some whispering condolences they barely meant. Her aunt reached for her hand, and Lia let her, even though the touch felt foreign. Like being patted on the back by a stranger on a crowded train.
The priest kept talking. Something about peace. Eternal rest. Letting go.
Lia focused on the sound of dirt hitting wood. A dull, final sound. Like the world had run out of things to say.
Her mother was gone.
Her father wasn't here.
And she had no idea who she was supposed to be now.
A man she'd never seen before placed a lily at the grave. Lia watched his fingers linger on the edge of the stone before he turned and walked away without making eye contact.
Everyone left before she did.
She waited until the cemetery was empty and the rain started to soak through her sleeves. Only then did she whisper, "I'm sorry I couldn't make you stay."
Then she left, too.
-----
Move-In Day
The next day tasted like damp air and concrete. The kind of weather that stuck to your skin and made everything feel heavier than it should.
Jace hauled two duffel bags up a narrow staircase, balancing a box of tangled cords and notebooks on his hip. The residence hall—Carson Hall—smelled like fresh paint, old carpet, and the collective nerves of 200 teenagers pretending to be adults.
He wasn't sure what he expected college to feel like, but so far it was mostly sweat and social anxiety.
His roommate was already half-moved in: posters of bands Jace didn't recognize, a gaming setup that looked way too expensive, and a Nerf gun casually lying across the bed like a warning.
Jace dropped his bags, took a breath, and said to no one, "Here we go."
-----
Lia
Lia moved in alone.
Her father hadn't offered to come, and she hadn't asked. The silence between them was now a familiar landscape — wide, flat, and unchanging.
She carried a suitcase in one hand and a box of books in the other. Everything else had been shipped in advance. She'd packed lightly — not because she didn't need more, but because she didn't care enough to bring it.
Her dorm was in the same building as his. She didn't know that yet.
As she stepped into the elevator, a girl with bubblegum-pink hair smiled at her and said, "You look like you've walked through a gothic poem."
Lia blinked.
Then, almost without realizing it, she replied, "Maybe I have."
-----
Jace rounded the corner, adjusting his headphones, when he crashed into someone—literally. A box clattered to the floor between them, spilling a few paperback books and a framed photograph that slid across the tile.
"Oh—crap, I'm so sorry—" he started, crouching down quickly.
"No, it's okay," she said. Her voice was low and calm. Almost too calm.
He picked up the photo. A woman and a younger version of the girl in front of him. Same sharp eyes. Same wild, dark hair.
"I didn't mean to—" he offered her the frame.
"Thanks."
He looked at her for the first time then. Really looked.
She was... breathtaking.
Not in the exaggerated, movie-scene way. She didn't try to be pretty. She didn't wear it like a costume. There was something else—something about the way she stood like she was guarding something invisible. Her eyes held both softness and steel. She looked like she had forgotten how to smile, but remembered how it used to feel.
"First day?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"I'm Jace."
She hesitated, just a second too long. "Lianore," she said. Then, as if offering a second chance at closeness, "But everyone just calls me Lia."
He smiled. "Lia. Cool name."
She gave the barest tilt of her lips in return. Not quite a smile. More like the shadow of one.
"Well," he said, stepping back, "welcome to the most expensive concrete box you'll ever live in."
That earned a quiet laugh. "Can't wait."
And then, just like that, she was gone. Walking down the hall, her boots soft against the tile. He watched her disappear into her room and wondered how someone could look so much like a poem left unfinished.
There was something about her — like she was both here and already fading. And somehow, he couldn't look away.
It started there — in a hallway, with a smile, and the kind of silence that meant everything. She was light in the hallway. And he, unknowingly, would become her shadow.