To Be Continued...

EIGHTEEN

What happened after that night was exactly what I've done to myself for the past two years: isolated myself from everyone, shut down every emotion, and stopped reacting, just like I did all those times when Scarlett and Sherman betrayed me. But this time, I didn't drown my sorrows in a brothel, like I used to. I didn't numb myself with strangers, trying to forget the pain. What stopped me? It was the memory of her-the girl at Robbs. Her voice still lingers in my mind, even though I can't fully recall it. I remember the way her hair brushed against my face when I accidentally knocked her ice cream out of her hand. That brief moment, the warmth of her touch, it's been the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely. It's like a salve on the gaping wound of my trust issues.

These past eight days have dragged on endlessly, each one more torturous than the last. I fell sick, locked myself in my room, and became a shell of the person I once was. I'm the kind of guy who would call his mom for a glass of water, but since that night on the 22nd-or was it the 23rd? I've lost track of time-I've been behaving the same way I did back when Scarlett and Sherman ripped my heart out. I know I'm doing wrong, isolating myself like this, but what about everyone else? What about all the wrong they've done to me?

I've always believed in the supremacy of God's justice, in karma, but right now, my faith is shaking. I used to think that even if things weren't going well, God wouldn't let something so horribly wrong happen to me. But after that night-after missing my opportunity, my chance-I'm left struggling to rebuild my future from scratch. I've got one option left in London, but I don't even know if that will do me any good.

The memories of that night are still sharp, but I don't want to recall them. I don't want to relive the way my hopes and dreams crumbled before my eyes. My plans, my confidence-it's all falling apart. It's the end of October now, and I'm back to searching for a college, trying to piece together a future that feels further away than ever. I missed my shot at Westminster, too, on the 29th. I was too shattered, too traumatized to even show up for the interview.

"Nicolas." My mom's voice calls out from outside my room. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, before telling her to come in.

"You okay, son?" she asks, her voice soft, filled with concern. I shake my head and, as she steps closer, I pull her into a tight hug. The tears I've been holding back for too long finally spill over, and I let them flow. I've been hiding my pain from everyone, even my parents, avoiding any conversation that might open the floodgates. But I guess I've reached my limit-at least with my mom, I can't keep it all bottled up anymore.

"Care to share?" she asks gently, but I shake my head again. I'm not ready to talk about it, not yet.

"Don't you think it's been too long for you to hold this in?" she continues, her voice soft but insistent. "To carry this pain inside you? I've seen how you push everyone away, how you don't give anyone a chance."

"Mom!" I exclaim, shocked. I didn't realize she had noticed the girls who tried to get close to me, the ones who wanted to be part of my life. But all I've done is listen, then let them go. None of them sparked anything in me. None of them compared to the fleeting memory of that girl's voice.

"Don't be surprised," Mom says, her tone gentle but firm. "I know about those girls who show up at our house, the ones who moved to Leeds for you, the ones who video call you every night, hoping to be more than just a friend."

"They can't, Mom. Trust me, they can't," I say, the words spilling out as I recall the voice in my head. But it's like grasping at smoke-I can't fully remember it, and the more I try, the more it hurts. I can't even recall her voice completely, and that's what hurts the most. I want to remember, but I can't. I don't even know if I deserve to.

"Maybe you should try sometime," she suggests, but I cut her off before she can finish.

"No, Mom, please."

"I don't know about all that, but I think you should give your dream another try instead of giving up," my dad says, making an unexpected entry into the conversation.

"Dad, I'm not giving up," I snap, the frustration in my voice clear. "And what do you know about my dreams, anyway?" I'm being rude, I know, but he doesn't seem surprised. He knows I haven't talked to him about this-about any of it.

"Yeah, but you need to focus on journalism first," he says, surprising me with how much he knows. "Get into your dream college instead of settling for something less."

"Isn't preparing a waste of a year?" I ask, still stunned by how much he's been paying attention.

"If it's worth it, then why not?" he replies, trying to convince me, but I'm not sure.

"Where do you think I should prepare? And what's the guarantee, anyway? I'll just take any college and finish my graduation," I argue, the doubt in my voice clear.

"It's just 7-8 months," he says. "And then you'll get into the place you deserve."

"Dad, you mean a drop year? For real?" I say, disbelief clear in my voice. He just nods and hands me a form-a fully completed form, only missing my signature.

"It's the best journalism institute," he explains. "They'll start online, and then maybe go offline-whatever suits you."

"It's in Leeds," Mom adds quietly, speaking for the first time in a while.

"Yeah, so if you don't want to go, you can do the course online and stay home," Dad continues. I raise my eyebrows in disbelief, trying to process what's happening. They never asked me, never really wanted to know my opinion-they're just forcing their decision on me.

"If you've already decided this, then what's the point of asking me?" I say, frustration bubbling over. "Just do whatever you want."