Morning light slanted through the kitchen window, cutting the table in half. Nathan stared at the fridge.
The college acceptance letter was still there, stuck to the refrigerator with a Saturn-shaped magnet—a gift from his father, years ago.
Not because Nathan hadn't opened it—he had opened it, read it, resealed it with almost ridiculous care—but because his mother had put it back on display the way you put things on display that are supposed to matter. Like a reminder. Like an anchor.
Below the university's elegant logo, there was a yellow Post-it note with Laura's handwriting, slanted slightly to the right:
"I'm so proud of you. Dad would be even prouder."
Nathan felt something tighten in his chest. Not pain, not exactly. More like a muscle bracing for a blow.
MIT.
He was eighteen with a "perfect" future stuck to the fridge. A future that felt like it had been written for someone else, with his name slapped on it.
He'd graduated less than a week ago, a ceremony that had blurred in his memory, and waiting to leave for college loomed like an inevitable deadline. Leaving Pine Hollow, that Pennsylvania town that sometimes felt like a shell he'd outgrown, should have been a relief. A clean break, finally. And yet, even the thought of leaving tasted bitter, as if he were abandoning a piece of himself.
The familiar streets, the low houses, the scent of pine and wet earth... everything trapped him in a past he couldn't shake off. Pine Hollow was the place of happy memories, sure, but also of long shadows that haunted him.
In three months he'd be in Cambridge. New hallways, new classrooms, new faces. Hundreds of people who knew nothing about him, who would look at him expecting... what? The brilliant kid from the acceptance letter? The model student who'd maintained a 4.0 GPA despite everything?
He'd have to start from scratch. Build a new version of himself, brick by brick, smile by smile. The thought exhausted him before he'd even begun.
Stop.
The voice came as always—not from outside, but from a precise point behind his eyes. Calm. Rational. Logical. Familiar as his own heartbeat.
You're getting ahead of yourself. MIT is three months away. Today is today. One step at a time. That's the only way this works.
Nathan breathed in slowly.
You've done this before. Four years of high school, and the last two nobody suspected a thing. Why? Because you're good at it. Because you know what to say and when to say it. MIT won't be any different. New people just means new masks to calibrate. You'll make it. You always do.
That voice was "The Noise." That's what Nathan had nicknamed his intrusive reasoning, that constant chatter that wormed its way into his thoughts, into the cracks of his ruminations, slipping in slyly like ivy. He called it that because it reminded him of overlapping radio signals, static interference, the unbearable disorder of a disturbed frequency. Like when you tune into a radio station but hear another one underneath.
He tried to isolate it, to turn down the volume on that relentless litany, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with his bare hands. He couldn't silence it, couldn't manage it, no matter how hard he tried. Every attempt crashed against cold, relentless reasoning, a ruthless logical analysis that dismantled every hope before it could even take root.
It was a constant presence, a silent shadow that followed him everywhere, weighing down every step, clouding every decision. He felt it strongest when he was alone, when he had no other distractions, but it was capable of creeping into conversations, into moments of apparent normalcy, warping reality and making everything grayer, more tasteless.
The voice wasn't malicious. It wasn't a monster. It didn't tell him to hurt himself, didn't laugh at him. It was worse. More subtle: it was reasonable, flat, tired. Like a hand pushing your head underwater without anger, just because "it's easier this way."
Hearing The Noise's last sentence, the muscle in Nathan's chest relaxed, but not completely. Never completely.
There was no one downstairs. Or rather: there was him.
He was tall—taller than his father—but seemed lighter than he should be. Shoulders slightly hunched, as if always bracing for impact. Black hair falling messily over his forehead and the shadow of dark circles that no amount of "good sleep" could erase. In recent months he'd started losing weight just enough not to set off alarms for anyone who saw him in passing, but enough for anyone who really looked.
He opened the fridge more to do something than out of real hunger. Milk, leftover lasagna, a plastic container with something green that had probably been salad. He grabbed the milk, sniffed it, decided it was still good.
From upstairs came the sound of footsteps, then the creak of the bathroom door. His mother was getting ready.
Nathan poured the milk into a glass and drank it standing up, leaning against the counter, looking at the MIT letter like you look at an enemy you know you'll have to face but not today. Not yet.
***
Laura came down the stairs with her bag already on her shoulder and keys in hand. She wore a light blue shirt Nathan hadn't seen in a while—maybe since the last parent-teacher conference, or maybe even longer.
Her brown hair, a dark, almost dull shade, was pulled back messily, tiredly. It wasn't the kind of tiredness that melts away with restful sleep, but the kind that accumulates over time, layering like dust on memories. It was a tiredness that marked the contours of her face, deepening the slight wrinkles around her eyes, a mark of silent worries and sleepless nights. Laura carried on herself the weight of years not so much from her chronological age as from the emotional burden she'd built around herself, trying to maintain a precarious balance between the pain of the past and the hope of a possible future. Hers was a fatigue you could read in her gaze, veiled by a sadness she tried, in vain, to hide behind a perfunctory smile.
She stopped on the last step and looked at Nathan the way you look at someone who might slip away if you stop watching.
"You're already up." It wasn't a question. She studied him with that look Nathan knew well. The look that searched for cracks.
"Couldn't sleep." Nathan raised the glass of milk as proof. "Breakfast."
"That's not breakfast, that's liquid calcium..." Laura crossed the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the sink. "There's cereal. Or I can make you some eggs, if—"
"I'm fine like this, Mom."
The words came out a touch too fast. Nathan heard them bounce in the air between them, and for an instant he saw something flicker in his mother's eyes. Then Laura nodded, closed the cabinet.
"Okay..."
The silence that followed had a specific gravity. Nathan felt it pressing on his shoulders like something physical. His mother wanted to tell him something—he could see it in the way her fingers gripped the keys, in the way she opened her mouth and then closed it again.
Tell her you're fine. Tell her she doesn't need to worry. That's what she wants to hear. The Noise echoed in his mind.
"Today's the last meeting with Mrs. Morales, right?" Laura filled the silence with the question, her voice a bit too light.
"Yeah. The famous 'check-out.'" Nathan made air quotes with his fingers, trying to seem amused. "Apparently I've completed the program."
Laura smiled, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "And how do you feel?"
How do I feel.
The question was a trap. Not in the sense that his mother wanted to trap him—Laura loved him, Nathan knew that—but in the sense that any honest answer would open doors he couldn't afford to open.
Answer. Reassure her. That's what you do.
"Relieved, I guess." Nathan shrugged with a nonchalance he'd perfected over the years. "It was helpful, but I'm glad it's over. I can move on." Then he added, "She insisted we meet one last time."
The truth was that Mrs. Morales had written on the appointment sheet: Last check-in: Check-out. And below, in pen, a sentence that Nathan had read and reread without quite understanding why it irritated him:
We'll close one chapter of your life to begin another.
Closing a chapter presupposed there was another one starting. Presupposed that he had an "after."
I don't have an after, he thought.
You don't need to have one, The Noise replied. You need to seem like you have one. It's different. You need to keep wearing the mask.
"Moving on..." Laura repeated the words slowly, as if weighing them. "Nathan, if you need to talk to someone even after—"
"Mom." Nathan set the empty glass in the sink. "I'm fine. Really. You have to believe me."
Another pause. Another heavy silence.
"Do you want a ride? I'm taking the car." Laura pointed to the keys. "I pass by the school anyway."
"I'd rather bike. It's close and besides, the fresh air will do me good."
It wasn't entirely a lie. The bike meant movement, wind on his face, something to focus on that wasn't the noise of his own thoughts. But most of all, the bike meant not being trapped in a car with his mother and her gentle questions and her gaze that searched for cracks.
You're not a burden if you don't give her anything to carry.
"Okay." Laura approached, placed a hand on his cheek. Her skin was warm, familiar. "See you later?"
For an instant, something flickered in her gaze. Something she wanted to say but didn't say.
"Sure." Nathan smiled at her. The right smile, calibrated, the one that said everything's fine, don't worry, I'm still here.
Laura looked at him a second too long, then nodded, withdrew her hand. "I'm proud of you, you know?"
Proud.
The word hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. Nathan maintained the smile with an effort he hoped didn't show.
"I know, Mom." He nodded, then added weakly, "Thank you."
The door closed. The sound of the car starting up, then driving away. Then silence.
Nathan stood in the kitchen, in the rectangle of light the sun drew on the floor, and felt the mask slip from his face like melting wax.
Breathe.
He closed his eyes.
Just breathe.
He didn't know how much time had passed—minutes, maybe—when his mind slipped elsewhere. It wasn't a voluntary memory. They never were. They came like tides, without warning, and dragged him under.
***
Two and a half years earlier. December. The cold bit through his jacket, but Nathan didn't want to go back inside.
The telescope was pointed north, and his father was a dark silhouette against the sky, his eye pressed to the eyepiece.
The winter sky has a particular beauty. The absence of humidity makes everything sharper, clearer, more crystalline. It was a sight that always took Nathan's breath away, no matter how many times he saw it.
"Come take a look."
Nathan approached, took his father's place. Through the lens, a point of light—brighter than the others, steadier.
"You know what that is?" Daniel asked.
"Of course. Polaris. The North Star."
"Good." His father sat down in the lawn chair, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. "You know why it's special?"
Nathan stepped back from the eyepiece. "Because it always points north?"
"Because it doesn't move." Daniel looked up at the sky, and in the pale starlight his face seemed younger, more open. "Everything else spins—the constellations, the planets, the moon. But it stays there. Always in the same spot. It's..." He searched for the word. "It's an anchor. A fixed point."
Nathan looked through the telescope again. The star glowed, indifferent, eternal.
"When I was a kid," Daniel continued, "and I felt lost or alone, I'd look at the North Star. It reminded me that some things don't change. That there's always a point of reference, even when everything seems—"
The sentence broke off in a cough. Then another. Then a series that seemed to never end, doubling his father over in the chair, one hand clutched to his chest, the other grasping at empty air.
"Dad?" Nathan moved toward him, his heart suddenly racing. "Dad, are you okay?"
Daniel raised a hand—to say "wait, I'm fine, give me a second." The coughing subsided slowly, leaving him gasping, eyes watering.
"I'm alright." His voice was hoarse, scratched. "Just a bit of cold. I should stop going out without a scarf." He gave a strangled chuckle.
"Maybe we should go back inside—"
"No." Daniel shook his head, straightened up in the chair. He smiled, and even though the smile was tired, it was genuine. "Not yet. I want to show you something else."
He stood up, moved to the telescope, adjusted the angle. His movements were slow, slower than usual, but his hands didn't shake.
"Nathan." He gestured toward the eyepiece. "Look."
Nathan looked. A galaxy, maybe. Or a nebula. He didn't remember. He only remembered his father's voice resuming, calmer now, steadier:
"When you feel alone. When everything seems like too much. When you feel overwhelmed. Look at the sky." A pause. "Find the North Star. And remember you're never truly lost. There's always a fixed point. Always. Wherever you are."
***
Nathan opened his eyes.
The kitchen was empty. The sunlight had shifted, the rectangle now cutting across the fridge, illuminating the MIT letter and his mother's yellow Post-it.
Dad would be even prouder.
The cough. He should have known that night. Should have insisted, dragged him inside, called the doctor. Instead he'd looked at the stars while his father died slowly beside him, cell by cell, neither of them knowing.
Enough.
The Noise's voice was firm, almost harsh.
You can't change what was. You can only move forward. One step at a time. Today there's the meeting with Morales. Focus on that.
Nathan pushed away from the counter. He went to his room, grabbed his backpack, checked that he had everything. Phone, wallet, keys.
Passing the hallway mirror, he glanced at himself for a moment.
Green eyes, dull but still capable of reflecting something. The reflection of a kid who'd learned to fake a smile, to bend his lips in a gesture that no longer reached his eyes. A small scar, almost imperceptible, ran across his chin, a memento from a bike crash at twelve. He still remembered his father's laugh, Dan commenting lightly: "The universe was training you, Nate. To get back up, I guess."
Never consolation, ever. Dan didn't offer sugary comfort, but structure, an attempt to rationalize even pain. Training, he'd said. And Nathan, even then, had understood that was his form of love. A memory that now weighed on him like a stone, an echo of a pride he no longer knew how to earn. A pride that, deep down, held him in a silent vise, pushing him forward, to show himself intact, even when he was hollow inside.
Nathan looked away.
He opened the front door.
The bike was in the garage, where he'd left it the night before. He opened the garage door, felt the June air on his face—warm, slightly humid, with the smell of cut grass drifting from neighbors' yards.
Find the North Star.
He got on the bike, started pedaling.
There's always a fixed point.
The high school appeared behind the trees: light brick, large windows, flag waving. It was the same building he'd seen for four years and today it seemed... foreign. Like it belonged to someone else.
Today he'd walk in for the last time.
Not as a student, not really. As someone closing a door even though he doesn't know what's on the other side.
The parking lot was almost empty. Classes were over for graduates, but administration and offices were open. Nathan crossed the white line painted on the asphalt like it was a border. He locked his bike to the bike rack, crossed the deserted courtyard, pushed open the entrance door.
The hallways were silent. His footsteps echoed on the linoleum. He passed the science lab door. For a moment he stopped. Not because he wanted to go in. Because he remembered what it felt like to have a real interest. An interest that made you forget time.
Now, science was still there—in his head, in his words—but it was no longer a direction. It was an object he held in his hands to avoid feeling the emptiness beneath.
He reached Mrs. Morales's door. The gold nameplate gleamed under the fluorescent light:
MRS. ELSA MORALESSchool Counselor
There was a card hanging with his name: Nathan Harris - 09:00. Below, written in pen: Last Check-in.
For two years, that room had been a harbor. Not a place of answers, but of listening. Mrs. Morales had never tried to "fix" Nathan, to fill him with empty hopes or suggest ready-made solutions. She simply welcomed his silence, let him talk when he felt like it, offered him a safe space where he could express his thoughts without fear of judgment.
The meetings had started shortly after Dan's death. The principal and teachers, worried about his obvious isolation, had suggested psychological support. Laura, consumed by guilt, had immediately agreed. Morales called these meetings "check-ins," a way to monitor students' well-being during difficult times.
At first, Nathan had gone to Mrs. Morales reluctantly, seeing those sessions as yet another imposition, a clumsy attempt to control his grief. But the woman had managed to earn his trust with her discretion and genuine empathy.
After graduation, she'd proposed one last meeting. Not a checkup, she'd specified, but a goodbye. A way to close a chapter and wish him the best for the future. She'd called it, jokingly, a "check-out."
Nathan took a deep breath, then knocked.
Mask on. Calibrated smile. Answers ready.
Last time. You can do this.