The End of the World Party. That’s what Victoria had called it, because apparently everything had to be dramatic and apocalyptic with her. Stella thought the name was either deeply ironic or deeply tasteless given that someone had tried to end their world from the dormitory roof less than two weeks ago, but nobody had asked her opinion. It was a bad name, anyway; the world should’ve ended a year ago, and yet they were still here.

She stood at the entrance to the swimming pool wearing a cheap Men In Black-like suit that Victoria had procured from God knows where. The jacket was slightly too big, making her look like a kid playing dress-up in her dad’s clothes, and the sunglasses were definitely overkill for 9 p.m. indoors, but Victoria had insisted on “consistency” or whatever.

“You’re the bouncer, you need to look intimidating,” Victoria had said.

“Whaaat? I’m like, five-foot-four.”

“Work with what you have.”

So here Stella was, clipboard in hand, checking names against Victoria’s approved list while some crappy electronica music thumped from inside the pool. (At that point, that place was more like a gym than an actual swimming pool. To an extent, it was both.) Whoever selected that playlist should have been beheaded… why all this? Either way, a week ago this might have been fun, with or without the dress-up part. But now it just felt hollow. Wrong, maybe, like they were all pretending everything was fine when nothing was fine.

Maybe she should’ve gotten stilts, at least.

She thought about Kate, still at the hospital, still recovering. Still alive, thank God, but barely. Had Stella visited? No. She’d made that stupid card with the terrible drawings and given it to Max to deliver, because Stella was too much of a coward to face what she’d failed to prevent. It was terrible, thinking about it.

Was she ever a good friend to Kate? The question had been eating at her all week. They’d talked quite a bit, sure, and definitely smiled at each other in the hallway a couple of times. But when Kate needed someone, really needed someone, Stella had been too busy playing social politics with the Vortex Club to notice.

No, no. She couldn’t think like that, not tonight. Tonight she had a job to do, and then she could go back to her room and hate herself in private like a normal person. That and look at the countless other problems she’d been sweeping under the rug…

“Stella!”

She looked up to see Warren approaching with Nathan. She briefly raised an eyebrow, and her brain did a small calculation error trying to process them together in this context: together, in public, just walking up to a party like it was the most natural thing in the world.

To be fair, this wasn’t really weird. After all, it was a normal thing friends did. But it would be annoying trying to remind herself all the time that just a while ago, they were not friends at all. What a strange turnaround.

Warren was dressed simply, too: nice jeans and a button-up shirt that was probably the fanciest thing he owned. Unsurprisingly, his hair wasn’t styled; this was a casual party after all. He looked nervous but seemed excited, bouncing slightly on his feet.

Nathan, on the other hand, was dressed like he was attending a wedding. Dark slacks, clearly expensive shoes, a white shirt and a burgundy tie that definitely cost more than Stella’s entire outfit. Maybe that’s how he always went to these gatherings? It was hard for her to guess, given she’d been to three of these Vortex Club parties at most, and could genuinely not recall a thing from them. He looked good, though his tie was slightly crooked, hanging askew like he’d given up halfway through tying it.

“Hey,” Warren said when they got close enough. “Loving the whole… uh… Agent Smith thing you’ve got going on, Stella.”

“It’s Agent J, smartass,” Stella said, striking a pose. “I thought you knew this by now.”

“But you’re like, his height. Maybe a foot shorter, I dunno.”

“Eh. Height is a state of mind.”

Nathan was fidgeting with his tie, and Warren noticed, reaching over without thinking to fix it. “Oh here, let me—”

Stella watched as Warren adjusted Nathan’s tie, seeing his tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. It was funny. Nathan stood very still, looking anywhere but at Warren’s face, which was about three inches from his own.

“There,” Warren said, smoothing down the tie. “Perfect.”

“Thanks,” Nathan muttered, his ears pink.

“Oh my God,” Stella said, “you two are adorable.”

“Shut up,” they said in unison, which only proved her point.

“You’re on the list,” Stella said, checking her clipboard unnecessarily. Although it would make sense to check if Warren was actually on the list, the fact he was with Nathan meant she could brush it off. He was a certified Vortex Club member, after all. “VIP section, right? Wow, you’re telling me this for the first time. Get in, and don’t fall off the balcony.”

“There’s a… balcony?” Warren asked, concerned.

“Maybe, I haven’t been here in a week. But hey, the night is young.”

Nathan was already heading inside, and Warren gave Stella a quick, grateful look before following. She watched them go, Nathan’s hand briefly touching Warren’s lower back to guide him through the crowd already forming inside, and felt something complicated in her chest.

Oh, they looked happy. Actually happy, too. Maybe they were pretending, but— no, they wouldn’t be too good at it. They just seemed genuinely glad to be there together. Maybe she’d been too harsh, too judgmental, and too caught up in her own fears about Nathan’s reputation to see that Warren might have found something real. That they both might have, actually.

Or maybe she was right to worry, and this would all end badly, and she’d have to pick up the pieces.

God, she was tired of thinking.

The next hour passed in a blur of checking IDs (and letting people in anyway — she knew most of them!), turning away some people from the VIP entrance (ignoring the fact the entrance to that was, well, inside), and pretending she couldn’t see people sneaking in through the side door. For better or worse, Victoria was paying her in social capital and the vague promises of “being remembered,” whatever that was, which was worth exactly nothing, but here she was anyway.

It was all very, very, very exciting. At least she pretended it was.

“Stella.”

She blinked, and turned to find the one and only, Mr. Jefferson approaching her, looking… infuriatingly perfect in dark jeans and a blazer that probably cost more than her tuition. What a man! Stella’s guard went up immediately.

“Oh, Mr. Jefferson. Enjoying the party?”

“It’s certainly… uh, spirited.” He glanced at her clipboard. “The music isn’t great, but I can deal with it. How’s, erm, door duty?’

“Thrilling, I think. I’ve turned away like three people so far. Real power trip.”

He smiled. “Well, I wanted to let you know that things have developed rapidly. The contest results came back sooner than expected, actually.”

Stella’s stomach dropped. “Oh!”

“And I’m announcing the winner tonight. Here, during the party.” He paused for effect. “I thought you’d rather not miss this opportunity.”

“I… okay? I’ll listen from here, no worries.”

“Stella.” His hand was on her shoulder now, quite warm and heavy and, honestly, vaguely inappropriate. “You should be inside. This is important.”

She wanted to ask why, wanted to push back, but she knew that she couldn’t embarrass him, not in such a crowded place like this. After all, it was him who convinced her (who then convinced Victoria) to make this stupid party happen in the first place. It’s not like she was going to win this anyway.

“Fine,” she heard herself say. “But if someone crashes and Victoria blames me—”

“I’ll handle Victoria. Go on.”

Stella handed her clipboard to some random student Victoria had roped into helping and headed inside. And wow, the gym had been transformed into something out of a music video; lights everywhere, makeshift bars, a DJ booth that definitely violated several fire codes. It was packed, with bodies moving in that way drunk people moved when they thought they were dancing, and was just very fascinating in general.

She spotted Warren and Nathan up in the VIP section — so there was a balcony after all! —, leaning against the railing and watching the chaos below. Warren was gesturing animatedly about something, and Nathan was smiling, his whole posture relaxed in a way Stella had never seen.

Looking down, she sighed.

---

Warren was three drinks in and feeling pleasantly warm. It was all very funny, not at all scary, and quite hard to explain. To his delight, the VIP section was exactly as Nathan had promised: removed enough from the chaos for them to breathe, but close enough to watch the drama unfold.

“Ten bucks says those two hook up before midnight,” Nathan said, pointing at a couple dancing way too close for people who’d claimed to be “just friends.” They seemed familiar.

“That’s… uh, Taylor and somebody. I don’t know who that is. But twenty says they’re already hooking up.”

“You’re on.”

They’d been doing this for an hour now, placing increasingly ridiculous bets and drinking expensive vodka that Nathan had taken from somewhere. At some point, Warren had stopped asking questions about where Nathan got things. Rich kids had their ways, and he had been well aware of this even before he met him.

But something was off, he thought. Nathan was drinking, sure, although barely. He’d refill his cup and then just hold it, occasionally bringing it to his lips but never actually swallowing. His eyes kept scanning the crowd, as if he was looking for someone (or avoiding someone?), and his jokes were landing a beat too slow. (Not that Warren’s jokes were any better, to be fair.)

“You okay?” Warren asked during a lull in the music.

“Fine. Why?”

“You just seem… I don’t know. Distant?”

Nathan forced a smile. “Well, I’m right here, aren’t I?”

“Physically, yeah. But I think you’re, uh, mentally, doing that thing where you’re somewhere else.”

“That’s called thinking, dumbass. And I’m not doing a ‘thing.’ What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Of course you’re doing a thing. Like, your eyes go all unfocused and you start clenching your jaw.”

Nathan’s hand went to his jaw, and he laughed without humor. What was this kid thinking, that he was possessed or something? No way. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Maybe.”

But Warren didn’t think so. Something was wrong, had been wrong since they got here. Nathan had seemed fine in his room, had even made jokes while Warren fixed his tie (and okay, maybe Warren had taken longer than necessary because Nathan smelled really good and being that close to him made Warren’s brain short-circuit, but that was beside the point). But the second they’d walked into the party, it seemed Nathan had tensed up like he was walking into a trap.

It was weird. But he wasn’t the only one who thought that way, too.

Stella, who had been half-listening from her position near the door, watching the crowd pulse and throb under the lights, thought things were weird for another reason. The music had been terrible for the past hour; they were EDM remixes of pop songs that didn’t need remixing, and everything came out compressed and distorted through the gym’s aging sound system.

But before Warren could push further, the music cut off abruptly, replaced by feedback from the DJ’s microphone.

“Attention, everyone!” Victoria’s voice echoed through the gym, already impatient. “If I could have your attention, please! And yes… that means you too, Justin.”

The crowd soon settled into silence, everyone turning toward the small stage area Victoria had set up. Mr. Jefferson stood next to her, looking very much comfortable in the spotlight.

“Thank you all for coming to the End of the World Party,” Victoria continued, gesturing dramatically. “I know the past couple weeks have been… uh, difficult. But tonight is about celebration… about life… and about art!”

Someone whooped enthusiastically. Yeah, it was definitely Justin.

“And speaking of art,” Victoria stepped aside, letting Jefferson take the microphone, “Mr. Jefferson has an announcement.”

Jefferson smiled, and even from the VIP section Warren could see how calculated it was. He wasn’t even sure why Jefferson was here, especially considering he never went to the three and a half parties Warren had attended before.

“Thank you, Victoria. And thank you all for making this year so special. Your passion for photography, for capturing truth, has been inspiring.”

Warren felt Nathan go rigid beside him.

“As you know, several of our students submitted photographs to the Everyday Heroes contest. National level competition, very prestigious, as you may know.” Jefferson was working the crowd now, building suspense. “In fact, the judging panel included some of the most respected names in contemporary photography. Diane Arbus’ protégés, a few Pulitzer winners… in general, people whose opinion actually matters in this industry.”

He paused, letting that sink in.

“And I’m thrilled to announce that we have a winner from Blackwell Academy.”

The gym erupted in premature cheers. Whatever feelings they initially had were short lived, however; Victoria made a “settle down” gesture to the crowd, who naturally, listened.

“This photographer,” Jefferson said, “submitted work that exemplifies not just technical skill, but also emotional truth. Someone who saw beauty in the overlooked, dignity in the forgotten… hmm, humanity in the everyday, I would say. A true hero, no pun intended.”

Please don’t be me, Warren thought. Please don’t be me. I didn’t even submit anything.

“The winner of the Everyday Heroes contest, earning an all-expenses-paid trip to San Francisco and a gallery showing at the Zeitgeist Modern…” Jefferson paused, and Warren swore he looked directly at the VIP section for a moment there.

“…Miss Stella Hill.”

---

It felt as if the world tilted sideways.

The gym erupted in applause; some of which confused, most of which surprised, but it seemed genuine. All of this, in fact, seemed real. But how? Stella stood frozen by the door, her clipboard clattering to the floor. No, no, this wasn’t real. This was a mistake. Someone would correct it any second now.

But Jefferson was gesturing for her to come up. Victoria was clapping (stiffly, but clapping), and her expression was harder to read — surprise, definitely, and maybe anger, but she was definitely clapping along with everyone else. The fact Victoria, out of all people, didn’t win, was an amazing feat by itself. It made no sense, too. And then people were turning to look at her, and—

The DJ booth suddenly came alive with a new sound. Not the compressed EDM garbage from before, fortunately, but it was something funkier, warmer. The opening notes of Parliament’s “Mothership Connection,” apparently.

My God, she thought. It is real.

Half-pretending the universe was having a joke at her expense, Stella’s legs moved automatically, carrying her through the crowd, straight to her very own execution. People were patting her back, congratulating her. It was hard to even look at all the faces in the crowd. Of the few she saw, Dana in particular looked shocked. Courtney’s expression was somewhat unreadable, by comparison.

And while Warren’s brain took a second to process what was going on, he was cheering, genuinely excited. Stella won. Stella actually won, as insane as that was. He looked down and saw her in the crowd, her face cycling through shock, disbelief, and something that might have been fear. She didn’t seem to be expecting it either, he thought.

To Stella, the walk to the stage felt infinite and, curiously, instantaneous. When she reached it, Jefferson’s hand was on her shoulder, pulling her up. His arm went around her in what looked like a celebratory hug, with his hand warm through her suit jacket.

“Congratulations,” he murmured in her ear, too quiet for the microphone. “I told you I believed in you.”

He released her and handed her the microphone, and suddenly Stella was standing in front of everyone, under lights that were too bright, with music that was too weird, feeling like she’d stumbled into someone else’s life.

Which, to be fair, she did.

“I…” Stella started, her voice cracking and echoing through the gym. She cleared her throat, tried again. “I’m not a great photographer.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd.

“No, really. I’m not. I’m… an okay photographer, maybe, but I’m not a great one.” The words were coming out wrong, too honest, and while she knew this, Stella also knew she couldn’t stop them. “I don’t really take photos that offend anyone, or that follow all the rules. But…”

At that point, the laughter had stopped. People were actually listening now.

“…but I’m proud to be a photographer anyway. To, you know, try to see things. Eyes, you know, they help us see things. Usually, that is. And they help us capture moments. Cameras, too, uh. And um… I’m proud to make people look at the world differently, even if I’m not always brave enough to do it the way I should.”

She took a breath. There was, suddenly, Kate’s face in her mind. Kate smiling in the hallway, Kate helping her with her biology homework, Kate looking so small and sad the last time Stella had seen her before… oh no.

“And I… well, I want to dedicate this award to my— erm, our friend Kate Marsh,” Stella said, and her voice broke slightly. “Who’s one of the best people I know. Who I really wish I’d photographed more, and who I will photograph more, when she’s ready.” She looked up, meeting eyes in the crowd. “She’s an amazing person, and one that deserves to be seen. Really seen, and not judged or pitied or…. just seen.”

The applause this time was different, she thought. It seemed more genuine, likely due to people remembering Kate and feeling guilty, and sad, and hopefully all at once. But that could’ve ended a lot differently, too.

Jefferson squeezed her shoulder, leaning into her microphone. “Beautiful words, Stella. Really beautiful. Now smile for the camera, this is your moment!”

And so cameras flashed from everywhere. Phones, actual cameras, and also some official photographer Jefferson must have arranged. Stella smiled, because what else could she do? But her brain was still trying to process everything.

She’d won. She’d actually won. But how…?

Maybe her photo wasn’t as bad as she thought it was. Maybe a tad boring, and everything she’d just said it was, but perhaps it was actually a good photo, and she was just pretending it wasn’t. After all, imposter syndrome was a real thing, she’d read about it. Maybe she was actually talented and had spent so long convincing herself otherwise, that she couldn’t recognize success when it literally called her name in front of a hundred people.

Unless… was this Jefferson’s doing? Had he influenced the judges? Was this what he’d meant by “doing his best” to get a Blackwell student to win? The way he announced this didn’t make much sense to her. Were these results out already? Had they leaked? Had he leaked the result? There was no way national contest results would get announced at high school parties by a teacher, even if it was Mark Jefferson of all people. 

That wasn’t how any of this worked. This was quite confusing. And despite everything, Stella had never felt less like a winner in her life.

---

Up in the VIP section, Warren had been cheering so hard for Stella that it took him a moment to notice the silence beside him.

Nathan hadn’t clapped. Hadn’t reacted at all, actually. He was standing rigid, with his untouched drink still in his hand, staring at the stage where Jefferson was now talking to some photographer, one arm gesturing expansively while the other reached for Stella, who was already moving away. Nathan’s eyes didn’t seem to be locked on Stella, though.

“Hey,” Warren said softly. “Pretty cool about Stella, right? She totally deserved—”

“I need to go,” Nathan said abruptly. His voice was fairly tight, controlled in a way that took visible effort.

Warren turned to face him fully, and what he saw in Nathan’s expression made his stomach drop. “W-what? Nathan—”

But Nathan was already moving toward the VIP exit, weaving between the small tables and empty bottles with jerky, desperate movements. He knocked a glass off a table and didn’t stop to pick it up, or even flinch at the sound of it shattering. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to pay for that…

“Nathan, wait!” Warren abandoned his drink and followed, catching the door before it closed behind Nathan’s retreating figure. “Nathan!”

The back stairwell was concrete and fluorescent-lit, a harsh contrast to the party’s mood lighting, and the bass from the gym was muffled but still present, vibrating through the walls. Nathan was taking the stairs two at a time, one hand on the railing, and the other pressed against his chest.

“Nathan, stop! Just—” Warren grabbed the railing and hurried after him. “Is this about Stella? About the contest? Because you shouldn’t feel bad about that— hey, wait up!”

He didn’t answer; he just kept descending.

Warren tried again, louder this time. “Because you shouldn’t feel bad about that! Y-your photos are great, and Stella’s are too, and it’s not like it’s a competition between friends—”

“It’s not about the fucking contest!” Nathan’s voice echoed in the stairwell.

It… wasn’t?

He hit the ground floor door with both hands, bursting out into the parking lot like he’d been drowning and finally found air. At that point, the night was cold and damp, with the fog rolling in from the coast, turning the parking lot lights into fuzzy halos. Nathan stumbled a few steps, then bent over, hands on his knees, breathing in harsh, ragged gasps.

Warren approached slowly. He had no idea what was going on. “Okay. Okay, it’s not about the contest, I get it. But what—”

“I just needed air.” Nathan’s voice was muffled, directed at the pavement. “That’s all. Just air.”

“You sure? You don’t look alright.”

“I’m fine.”

“The opposite of fine, maybe, but you really don’t look good.” Warren moved closer, close enough to see Nathan’s hands shaking where they gripped his knees. “What’s going on? Please, just talk to me.”

“Nothing, I told you. I’m fine.” But Nathan’s voice cracked on the word ’fine,’ betraying him.

“Bullshit.”

Nathan’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“That’s bullshit, Nathan.” Warren’s voice was gentle but firm. “Look, you’ve been weird all night. Since before we even got here, actually. But like, you barely drank anything at the party. And I…” He stopped, trying to find words to use here. “I don’t know, you just look like you’re scared of something.”

Nathan laughed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then explain it to me, dude. Just help me understand.”

“You can’t understand. You’re too—” Nathan wrapped his arms around himself, still bent over, shaking. “You’re too good. Too fucking good and pure and—”

“I’m not good. I’m barely holding it together most days, you know that.”

He doesn’t see it, Nathan thought. No, he doesn’t see how good he is. How normal, how untouched by all of this. Why…?

“But you are good, Warren.” Nathan finally straightened up, and his eyes were slightly red and wet. Admittedly, not even Warren was sure what “good” meant to either of them at this point. “You help people, y-you care about things, you don’t…” He trailed off, his jaw working like he was trying to force words out that wouldn’t come.

Concerned, Warren stepped closer, albeit slowly. “Nathan, what’s wrong? Really, what happened?”

“What’s it feel like?” Nathan’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Being good? Being in control of yourself?”

“…what?”

“What’s it feel like to be controlled by someone?” The words tumbled out now, though faster, almost breaking apart. “To do things you know are wrong, but you can’t stop because they’re in your head, they’re always in your head, and they’re making you, pushing you, and you’re so desperate for their approval that you’d do anything? A-anything they asked?”

Warren’s stomach dropped. “Nathan, who—”

“What’s it feel like to be evil?” It was hard for Nathan to disguise the fact he was crying now, with tears tracking down his face and his whole body shaking. “To be so fucking dirty and broken that you can never be cleansed, no matter what you do? No matter how h-hard you scrub?”

“You’re not evil.”

“You don’t know that! You don’t know what I’ve—” he felt his voice break completely. “I… I see things. Things I’ve done, things I let happen, that I helped with, and all that crap. And I know I can never be clean again. I know I’m going to hell… or prison… or both, and the worst part is I deserve it. I deserve all of it.”

Warren felt like he was drowning, either in fog or in confusion, or maybe in the terrible certainty that something very bad had happened (or was happening?) and he didn’t know how to fix it. “Nathan, I don’t understand. What things? What did you do?”

“I can’t— I can’t tell you. If I tell you, you’ll—” Nathan shook his head violently, backing up a step. “You’ll look at me different. Oh, everyone will, as they should.”

“But I—”

“I’m not the person you think I am!” It came out as a shout, echoing across the empty parking lot. “I’m not your stupid friend who watches movies and makes stupid jokes, or whatever you think of me. I’m— I’m, ugh, I’ve done things, Warren. Terrible things. And I can’t take them back.”

While his three remaining brain cells attempted to figure out what was going on, Warren’s heart was hammering. Part of him wanted to demand answers, to know what Nathan was talking about. What the hell was he talking about? Sure, he’d also done things in life that he regretted doing, but Nathan seemed really unnerved by whatever was happening to him.

Having many questions and few to no answers, the only thing he was sure of was how his friend was falling apart. It was horrible to see someone he genuinely cared about drowning in guilt and fear and self-loathing.

And so instead of pushing, or demanding answers he couldn’t get, Warren stepped forward and pulled Nathan into a hug.

It was not unprecedented, but it was unexpected; Nathan resisted for a second, his body rigid, and then he collapsed into it like a puppet with cut strings. He sobbed against Warren’s shoulder, his hands fisting in the back of Warren’s shirt, and his whole body shaking with the force of whatever he’d been holding back.

Warren held him tight, with one hand on the back of Nathan’s head and the other around his back, just holding on. “It’s okay,” he murmured, knowing it probably wasn’t okay — okay, definitely wasn’t okay —, but not knowing what else to say. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

“I’m not,” Nathan gasped between sobs. “I’m not okay. I’m never going to be okay.”

“Then we’ll figure it out, alright? Whatever it is.”

They stood like that for what felt like hours to Nathan, but was only about two and a half minutes. It was a strange experience for both.

Finally, Nathan’s breathing started to slow, his sobs turning into hiccups and then just shaky breaths. He didn’t pull away, however, staying pressed against Warren like he was the only solid thing in the world. Given his surroundings, perhaps that was true.

“We should get you inside,” Warren said quietly. “Somewhere warm, too. We’re gonna freeze our asses if we stay here for too long.”

Nathan nodded against his shoulder, not speaking further.

---

Interestingly, Nathan had never been to Warren’s room.

Okay, that was partially a lie. He’d been there once, maybe twice, perhaps thrice if he really wanted to insist, but he’d never been inside it. At most he’d knocked on the door and stood in the hallway, and he’d waited while Warren grabbed his jacket. But that was really it.

And yet he could sense he was heading there instead of his room.

Warren carefully guided him toward the dorms, with one arm still around him, supporting most of his weight. And Nathan moved mechanically, like a wind-up toy running down. They passed a few students on their way back from the party, but Warren just glared at them until they looked away, protecting Nathan from curious eyes. Fortunately, no one said a thing.

His room was blessedly empty, Nathan thought. Warren guided him inside and closed the door behind them.

And so he stood just inside, swaying slightly, and looked around.

Yeah. This room was so… uh, Warren. Completely, utterly Warren in a way that made Nathan’s chest ache. That may or may not have been a good thing.

There were a couple glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, faded and dead but still arranged in what Nathan recognized as actual constellations. (Which ones? He had no clue.) There was a poster for Brick on one wall, next to a framed still from a movie he didn’t immediately recognize, but would later recall as Jack and Jill. Aside from that, there were also notes scattered everywhere, covered in Warren’s cramped handwriting and little doodles in the margins.

The bed was also unmade, its blankets tangled like Warren had just rolled out of them. And a fan sat in the corner, unplugged. It didn’t look particularly happy to be there. Not only that, but there were clothes piled on a chair that was clearly meant for sitting, but had been repurposed as a laundry holder.

In other words, a normal room. It smelled like Warren too — but Jesus, he wasn’t going to focus on that.

Warren sat Nathan down on the bed; the sheets were soft, well-worn, probably from a care package from home, and grabbed tissues and a bottle of water from his much less fancy desk.

“Drink,” he ordered, pressing the bottle into Nathan’s hands.

Nathan obeyed mechanically, taking small sips while Warren knelt in front of him, watching his face with concern.

“I-I don’t know what’s going on,” Warren said carefully. “And you don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready. But whatever it is, whatever you’ve done or think you’ve done or, uh… you don’t have to carry it alone.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Maybe not. But I know you’re hurting, I can see it. I know something or someone has done something to you, but, um, I know you need help.”

Nathan flinched. “I can’t—”

“Listen to me.” Warren grabbed Nathan’s free hand, holding it tight. “I don’t know what happened. But if someone is controlling you or… or making you do things you don’t want to do or whatever, that’s not your fault. That’s not you being evil. If anything, that’s you being a victim.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Then help me understand! But… but now, I mean, uh, not when you’re like this.” Warren took a breath, choosing his words carefully. He wasn’t great at handling these sorts of situations. “Nathan, if someone is hurting you…  you need to get help. Real help, yeah, not just me listening to you. I don’t know, police, lawyers, a therapist, someone?”

Nathan’s laugh was bitter. “My lawyers work for my dad. The police work for my dad. Hell, half this town works for my dad. I throw shit at them and it bounces back to me.”

And Dad works for the family name, Nathan recalled. God knows what would happen if the Prescotts were involved in a scandal. Another one.

“Then we find someone who doesn’t.”

“There is no one.”

“There’s always someone.” Warren squeezed his hand. “And right now, there’s me. I’m here. Right? And I’m not going anywhere.”

Nathan just stared at him. He couldn’t get it. Why, despite everything, Warren was still following him around like a puppy? What did he have that the others didn’t? Sure, it’s not as if his life was that exciting before he came along, but things would’ve been much better for either if he just stayed with people like, uh, that girl. What was her name again… Brooke? Something like that.

“…why? Why do you care?”

“Because you matter to me, you idiot. Because you’re my friend. When everyone else at this school treated me like I was invisible or annoying, you actually saw me. You watched movies with me, great movies too. You listened when I talked. You let me fix your tie! And you also hugged me even though we’re both terrible at hugging.”

Nathan’s laugh this time was wet, but almost real. Perhaps it was impossible to resist the Graham. “You really are terrible at hugging.”

“Oh, I’m getting better. Practice makes perfect.”

“Is that what this is? Practice?”

“Nope, this is me being here for you. However you need me to be.” Warren sat next to him on the bed, close enough that their shoulders touched. “I don’t know what you’ve done. Maybe it’s bad. Maybe it’s really bad. Maybe it’s really really bad, but still. I know you’re not evil. Evil people don’t break down crying about being evil; you don’t see that in the movies. Evil people don’t hate themselves for the things they’ve done.”

“That’s not how it works—”

“Evil people don’t have friends who care about them. And I care about you, Nathan. So whatever you’re carrying, whatever’s eating you alive… please. Be strong enough to ask for help, t-to tell someone what’s really going on.”

Nathan was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. “What if it’s too late? What if I’m too far gone?”

“It’s never too late to try to make things right.”

“Oh come on. You sound like one of those shitty motivational posters from the 80s.”

“No, but I sound like someone who cares about you and doesn’t want to see you destroy yourself.”

Nathan turned to look at him, really look at him, and Warren saw something shift in his expression. It was not relief, exactly, but maybe a tiny crack in the wall he’d built around himself.

“I don’t deserve you,” Nathan said quietly.

“Lucky for you, friendship isn’t about deserving. I figured that out a while back. It may not look like it, but friendship is about showing up. You were there when I needed someone, and… yeah, you were drunk sometimes and kind of an asshole about it, but you still showed up. So I’m here now.”

Nathan just stared at him for another moment, then lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Warren. It was desperate, he knew it well. Warren hugged back immediately this time, with no hesitation, just holding on while Nathan shook against him.

“Thank you,” Nathan whispered into his shoulder. “For not hating me, really.”

“I could never hate you.”

“You might, eventually. When… well, when you know.”

“Then I guess we’ll deal with that when it happens. But right now, I’m here. And I’m not leaving.”

They stayed like that for a while, holding each other in Warren’s cramped dorm room while the party continued without them. It wasn’t a terrible party, but there really was no point in going back after all of that. As much as Warren would miss the music there, he knew he had a lot of good stuff to listen to back in his room anyway.

But now was not the time, he thought.

Eventually, Nathan’s breathing evened out, as exhaustion finally overtook his anxiety, and his body went heavy in Warren’s arms. Surprisingly, Warren thought, he was lighter than it seemed.

“I’m tired,” Nathan mumbled.

“You don’t say,” Warren chuckled. “You can sleep, you’re safe here.”

“Can I—” his voice was small. “Can I stay? Just for tonight?”

On any other day, this comment would’ve caused him to raise an eyebrow. Not that it was unusual… well, for Nathan it would be, but Warren knew that the opposite had happened, so maybe this could happen too. But even if it did, he never thought it would be like this.

He’d never prepared for a sleepover. Hell, he never even had a sleepover with anyone. The closest he’d been to one in the last couple of years was during his very exciting visits to Stella, but that probably didn’t count if Stella slept through at least half of their sessions. Either way, he was in no condition to decline Nathan’s request, nor did he want to.

“O-of course. Always.”

They shifted carefully, neither quite willing to let go completely, and trying to fit themselves onto Warren’s narrow bed. It was too small for two people, though, and that made things a bit complicated. To be fair, it was barely designed for one person and a laptop, which was occasionally Warren’s sleeping arrangement. Nathan ended up half on top of Warren, with their legs tangling awkwardly as they tried to find a comfortable position. How vaguely familiar…

“Ow, that’s my— okay, uh, if you just—” Warren tried his best to adjust, as Nathan’s elbow caught squarely him in the ribs.

“Sorry! I-I’m— wait, where do I—”

“Um, maybe if you— no, uh, that’s worse.”

They fumbled for another fifteen seconds, all knees and elbows until finally Warren just pulled Nathan closer, tucking him against his chest with Nathan’s head under his chin. Nathan’s arms wrapped around Warren’s waist, and suddenly it worked. How simple! They fit together like puzzle pieces, warm and close and somehow right despite the too-small bed.

“Oh,” Nathan said quietly. “This is… better.”

“Yeah,” Warren agreed, his voice soft in the darkness.

And so they lay like that for a moment, breathing together, and feeling each other’s heartbeats gradually slow from the panic and chaos into something steadier.

“You know, if you need help,” Warren said quietly into the darkness, “with whatever’s going on… just promise me you’ll ask for it. Okay? Even if it’s scary or hard or… just promise me you’ll try.”

Nathan was quiet for so long Warren thought he’d fallen asleep. Given it was somewhat late, he half expected that to be the case anyway. Then, barely audible: “I promise.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

Shifting slightly, Nathan tilted his head up. It was a small movement, barely intentional, but it brought their faces close; closer than they’d ever been outside of Warren fixing his tie, thinking of it. In the dim light from Warren’s desk lamp, Nathan could see every detail of Warren’s face. The worry lines between his eyebrows that were definitely too deep for someone his age, and the way his eyes kept searching Nathan’s face, like he was looking for answers or maybe just checking that Nathan was still there. (He was.) And, well, the slight part of his lips.

That last part was too scary to think about.

“Warren,” Nathan whispered.

“Yeah?”

But Nathan didn’t have words for what he wanted to say. He hated to admit this, but he didn’t know how to express the tangled mess of gratitude and terror and something else in his brain to him, nor how to explain that there was something warmer that was blooming in his chest. So instead of speaking, he moved forward. Slowly. Very, very slowly. So slowly that Warren could have easily stopped him, could have pulled back, could have done anything. But Warren, not necessarily oblivious, didn’t move. He watched Nathan come closer with those earnest, worried eyes, and his breath went shallow.

And then their noses touched.

It was just like that. Just the tips of their noses brushing together, perhaps the softest possible contact two people could make. It was the kind of thing they’d done to their mothers when they were small, innocent and sweet and uncomplicated.

But this didn’t feel innocent. And yet, it felt like everything.

Warren’s breath caught audibly; he didn’t entirely expect that. Nathan’s eyes fluttered half-closed. For a moment, they stayed like that, with their foreheads almost touching, noses pressed together, and breathing each other’s air. Warren could count Nathan’s eyelashes; Nathan could see the exact moment Warren’s pupils dilated. That was quite unnerving, and also quite captivating.

Both of them were suddenly, acutely aware of how close they were. Really, really, really close. You know, how easy it would be to tilt just a little more, maybe, to close the remaining distance and to—

One of them gulped. Warren wasn’t sure if it was him or Nathan or both of them.

As that moment stretched out, although both could sense the anxiety was there — well, of course it was, it was always there — Nathan knew that underneath it, threaded through it, was something else. Something warm, maybe a bit light, even, but it was something that made Nathan’s chest feel less like a cage and more like a home. Warren, curiously, felt it too. Not in the exact same way as Nathan did, but he could feel a fuzzy, golden feeling spreading through him, starting from where Nathan was pressed against him and radiating outward. It was terrifying in its intensity. It was also, somehow, the least scary thing he’d felt in months.

Maybe this is okay, Nathan thought, surprising himself. Maybe he was allowed to have this. Maybe this is real, Warren thought. Maybe, just like his friend, he didn’t have to be afraid.

And then Nathan chuckled.

It was so soft, barely a sound. A release of tension, someone could technically say. But it was also an incredulous acknowledgment of what was happening, of where they’d ended up, and of how something this gentle could still exist after everything. Warren smiled against him, helpless not to, and their noses brushed again with the movement. Nathan settled back down slowly, tucking his face against Warren’s chest. He pressed his ear over Warren’s heart, letting the steady rhythm anchor him.

Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow.

All Warren did was tighten his arms around him, pulling him even closer. Neither of them spoke; neither of them needed to.

---

The walk back to her dorm after the party felt like moving through a dream. Or maybe a fever; Stella still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened.

She’d won, apparently. It was hard to believe… her name had been announced, people had clapped, cameras had flashed, and now she was walking across Blackwell’s foggy campus with a “winner’s certificate” tucked under her arm.

In retrospect, it was funny, yet none of it made sense.

The party’s music was still ringing in her ears, those god-awful EDM remixes of George Michael hits that the DJ had been spinning all night. The original songs were classics, obviously. Everyone loves a bit of “Faith,” “Freedom! ’90,” and “Father Figure” — all bangers, all starting with one of her favorite letters, F (the other ones were S, T, E, L, and A), and also probably part of the only half a dozen songs that Americans remembered. But whoever had decided to put a four-on-the-floor beat under “Every Other Lover In The World”, which maybe three or so Americans had heard of until then, should be arrested for crimes against music. Some songs were sacred!

Her brain continued focused on meaningless details to avoid processing the bigger picture. That was a defense mechanism she’d developed over years of Blackwell drama. But the bigger picture kept pushing through anyway. Jefferson had announced the winner, at a student party… before the results were even public.

That was… weird, right? National contests didn’t work like that. There were protocols, official announcements, press releases and all that jazz. You didn’t find out you’d won a major, nationwide photography competition while standing in a gym full of drunk teenagers, and watching your teacher hold a microphone like he was hosting the Oscars. It’s not like she was taking a one way ticket to Moolahville, either…

She’d checked her phone on the walk back. Nope, no emails from the Everyday Heroes organization. Nothing, well, aside from a bunch of Instagram tags from people who’d never spoken to her before. She really shouldn’t have posted her account name on Tumblr.

The actual public announcement, she would realize later, came out the next day. A full twenty-four hours after Jefferson had already told everyone at Blackwell! How had he known before the organization even released the results? Yet Stella pushed the question aside. She was tired, confused, and still wearing a suit that smelled like the theater department’s costume closet. If they had one, that is. She’d figure it out tomorrow.

But of course, Jefferson had caught her as she was leaving the gym, his hand on her elbow just firm enough to make her pause.

“Stella, wait. Do you have a moment?”

She’d turned to find him smiling that smile. Oh, what a beautiful smile it was! It made her feel like the only person in the world who mattered. The one that had made her submit that photo in the first place, so desperate for his approval.

“Oh, uh, yeah, um, hi again.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of how ridiculous she looked in the oversized suit. “What’s up?”

“I thought we could celebrate a little. Talk about what comes next, you know.” He’d gestured vaguely toward the parking lot, casual as anything. “My car’s just over here. We could sit for a while, go over the details. The gallery showing, the trip, what to expect in San Francisco…”

Something in Stella’s gut had tightened. Not quite fear — she didn’t have a name for it yet. Just… unease. It was hard to explain, but there was a quiet alarm bell ringing somewhere deep in her lizard brain.

“Oh,” she blinked. “I-I-I mean, that’s really nice of you, Mr. Jefferson, but uh… well… how do I explain this…” She’d forced a laugh, gesturing at herself. “I’m completely drained. And I’m still wearing this ridiculous suit. It’s a good suit, a tremendous— ahem, a nice suit, but I should probably go change and, you know, process everything. Let it sink in. Maybe uh, cry a little. The good kind of crying, y’ know?”

She was rambling. She always rambled when she was uncomfortable.

“Of course. It’s a lot to take in.” His hand was still on her elbow, warm through the suit jacket. He, unlike her, had all the time in the world. “But we should talk soon. There’s so much to discuss about the trip.”

“Definitely. Tomorrow? Or, uh, this week sometime?” She’d stepped back slightly, casually, not quite breaking his grip but creating enough distance to breathe. “I’d love to hear all about it when I’m more, erm, coherent. And wearing normal clothes, too. Clothes are important for coherence.”

Something had flickered across his face. Disappointment, maybe?Or something sharper, but that something was gone before she could identify it. Yet mere moments later, his smile was back, easy and practiced and warm. “Absolutely. This is your moment, Stella. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

“Thanks, Mr. Jefferson. For everything. Really.”

She’d walked away quickly, resisting the urge to look back, feeling his eyes on her the whole way to the dorm.

---

The next few days were surreal, to say the least.

Suddenly, everyone knew who Stella Hill was. Students she had genuinely never seen or heard of stopped her in the hallway to congratulate her. Other students who’d never acknowledged her existence were suddenly her best friends! Her Instagram followers tripled overnight, mostly from people at Blackwell who’d apparently just discovered she existed.

It was funny, in retrospect, recalling all the things they said to her. The greatest hits of hollow congratulations included:

”Oh my God, Stella, I always knew you were talented!”

But they didn’t know her last name until Thursday.

”Can you give me tips for my portfolio?”

But they didn’t have a portfolio. They did have an iPhone and those, uh, weird VSCO filters.

”We should totally hang out sometime. I feel like we have so much in common.”

But they had literally never spoken. Not once! She checked.

God, all that attention was so suffocating. And fake, too. So transparently, obviously fake that Stella wanted to scream. Many, many times, in fact. She’d developed a smile specifically for these interactions; it was tight-lipped and lightly pained, the universal expression for “thank you, please go away,” as all the New York Times bestselling authors of the 2000s would say.

Dana and Courtney were the worst offenders. The same girls who’d frozen her out whenever it suited them were now acting like they’d been besties all along. Tagging her in posts about “girl power” and “supporting our talented friends,” saving seats for her at lunch like they’d always done that, and introducing her to people as “my friend Stella, you know, the contest winner?”.

Stella had respect for both of them, genuinely. Dana was kind when she remembered to be, and Courtney was loyal to the people she actually cared about. But this sudden friendship offensive was so transparently motivated by proximity to success that Stella couldn’t help but find it, well, a bit weird.

Victoria was notably absent from the congratulations tour. They passed each other in the hallway once — with Victoria coming from the bathroom and Stella heading to class —, and Victoria’s expression was quite unreadable. It was as if she were feeling seventeen things at once and refused to show any of them. She didn’t say anything, and neither did Stella.

That was fine. Stella didn’t know what she would have said anyway. Sorry I won the thing you wanted? Thanks for not publicly destroying me? Nice shoes?

Actually, yeah, that third one would’ve been a good idea.

She didn’t exactly avoid Jefferson over those days; it was more that their schedules didn’t align, and she was too exhausted from the constant social performance to seek him out. He wasn’t in class the first day after the party too; he was in some kind of faculty meeting, his substitute said vaguely. The second day, Stella had overslept and missed his class entirely, which she felt terrible about.

But she’d make it up to him. Oh, of course she would. She’d schedule a proper meeting, ask all the right questions about San Francisco, and show him she was taking this seriously. He’d done so much for her… believed in her when nobody else did, pushed her to submit, championed her work. Well, the least she could do was be a good mentee.

Maybe they’d even have a genuinely good time in San Francisco, too. Going over the gallery details together, discussing her artistic direction, and probably having real conversations about photography and art and life, the kind of conversations she’d always imagined having with a mentor, but never quite achieved. Ah… she pictured them walking through the gallery district, whatever the name for it was, listening to Jefferson point out techniques in other photographers’ work, and her actually understanding what he meant for once!

Maybe he could be a real mentor, she thought, lying in bed that Tuesday night. More than a teacher who gives assignments and grades papers, but someone who actually guides her. Maybe San Francisco is where it all starts… hmm…

---

Wednesday morning, she decided to stop being weird about it.

Stella got up early, showered, and actually did her makeup properly instead of the occasional mascara-and-hope approach. She put on a nice, cream-colored blouse her mom had sent to her a few weeks earlier, paired it with her good jeans, and even did her hair, all thanks to a straightener she’d borrowed from… uh… who was it again? Oh yeah, Taylor… about three months ago and never returned.

She looked at herself in the mirror and decided she looked great.

But wow. San Francisco! God, she still couldn’t believe it. An actual gallery showing. Her photo… her not very exciting and fairly bland photo of Samuel feeding birds… hanging on a wall where real people would see it. Where critics might see it, where someone might look at it and feel something! Whatever that may be.

She was going to San Francisco with Jefferson, and they were going to have a great time, and she was going to learn so much, and maybe this was the beginning of something real. A career, perhaps. A future, possibly. A life beyond Blackwell and its petty dramas, absolutely.

Just gotta stop being weird about it, she told herself. He’s your teacher. He believes in you. Just stop making it complicated.

She arrived at Jefferson’s classroom twenty minutes before class, planning to catch him before the period started. Hmm. There were many things she could do, but one of them was to thank him properly, and be the eager, grateful student he clearly wanted her to be.

The door was locked, and the lights were off.

Hmm, weird. He was always early. Had been every single day since the semester started, too. She’d never once seen the photography classroom dark in the morning; Jefferson was the kind of teacher who arrived before the janitors, who had coffee brewing and music playing (when he was in a good mood, of course…) and the day’s lesson already written on the board before the first student shuffled in.

She tried the handle again. Hm, nope, definitely locked.

Stella checked her phone. No emails from Jefferson, no announcements about class being canceled… no messages at all, actually, which was strange given how eager he’d been to “discuss details” just days ago. This was weird. Maybe he was running late? Everyone had off days. Even Mark Jefferson. Maybe this made some senses.

She settled against the wall to wait, scrolling through her notifications. More congratulations from people she didn’t know. Boring! A photography blog had reposted her winning photo with a brief write-up. Not so boring…

Five minutes passed, then ten. Students started filtering past, heading to other classes, and a few of them gave her looks she couldn’t quite read. But eh, no. She was imagining things, or something. She was always imagining things, in fact. That’s what her brain was for.

Eventually, fifteen minutes had passed. The hallway was getting quieter as classes started. Stella checked her phone again, but nothing.

Maybe he’s sick, she thought. Teachers get sick, it happens. But something felt off. Maybe… maybe something bad happened? What if he got into an accident or something? Aw jeez… the amount of things that she—

“Miss Hill?”

She looked up to find Principal Wells hurrying down the hallway toward her, his tie askew and his face the color of old paper. He looked like he’d aged five years since she’d last seen him. His shirt was wrinkled, too; it was weird to see Wells, who was always so immaculate, wearing such a wrinkled shirt.

“P-Principal Wells? Is everything—”

“I’ve been looking for you all morning.” He was slightly out of breath, which was alarming in itself. Raymond Wells was not a man who hurried. (At least, she never saw him do so.) “Courtney said you’d left early. I checked the dorms, both dorms in fact, and—”

“I was just waiting for Mr. Jefferson. Well, we were supposed to talk about—”

“Please, come with me. Now.”

“Am I in trouble?” The question came out before she could stop it, automatic and childish. “I didn’t do anything wrong, I was just—”

“My office. Just please, Miss Hill.”

His tone left no room for argument. It wasn’t angry, thankfully, but it seemed like it was something worse.

Stella gathered her bag and followed him, her stomach sinking with every step. The hallway felt longer than usual, and that just made everything worse. She cataloged details the way she always did when she was anxious: the scuff marks on the floor, the faded motivational posters no one paid attention to, and the way Wells’ shoes squeaked slightly with each step. Maybe that wasn’t going to help as much.

What did I do?, she wondered. Did someone complain about the win? Did they find out the announcement was weird? Did—

Wells ushered her into his office and closed the door behind them with a soft, definitive click. The room smelled like coffee, unsurprisingly. His desk was covered in papers that looked like they’d been shuffled through multiple times without being organized.

He gestured for her to sit. She did, perching on the edge of the chair like she might need to bolt at any moment. Wells remained standing for a moment, pacing behind his desk, then seemed to think better of it and sat down heavily.

“Miss Hill. Erm, Stella.” He said her name like he was testing it, as if he’d forgotten how names worked or something. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to be direct.”

“Okay…” She gripped the armrests of her chair.

“Mr. Jefferson was arrested this morning.”

The words entered her ears and bounced around her skull without finding anywhere to land.

“He was taken into custody at approximately 4 a.m. by Arcadia Bay police, in coordination with state authorities.”

Stella blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He’s being charged with very serious crimes, Stella. Against students, that is.” Wells’ voice was steady but his hands weren’t; she could see them trembling slightly where they rested on his desk. “Let’s see. Drugging, unlawful photography, imprisonment… and, uh…”

“And what?”

Wells closed his eyes briefly. “He may be connected to the disappearance of Rachel Amber. And to… to the events surrounding, well, Kate Marsh’s attempt.”

It felt as if the clock on the wall, the hum of the air conditioning, and her own heartbeat, all just stopped.

Kate. Oh, Kate. Sweet, broken Kate who’d tried to jump off a building. Who Stella had dedicated her award to on a stage while Jefferson’s hand rested on her shoulder. Who she’d promised to photograph when she was ready, and who she’d failed to notice was drowning because she was too busy playing social politics and trying to impress—

Trying to impress him.

Rachel Amber. The name was familiar to her for a series of reasons; the most notable one was that she was the girl on all those faded missing posters. Aside from that, it was the fact they were in the same class last year. Stella didn’t recall speaking to her often, though. In spite of all those missing posters, everyone assumed she had run away to Los Angeles because it was easier than considering the alternative. Rachel had been gone for over a year while everyone moved on with their lives.

But… Jefferson? Her teacher, the man who believed in her, involved in… all of this?

“I don’t—” Stella’s voice came out wrong, thin and reedy, nothing like her usual tone. There was no sarcasm she could use to make this situation easier for everyone. “He’s a… but he’s our teacher… he is the Mark Jefferson. He’s on magazine covers, g-gallery shows, he—”

“A student came forward with evidence. Specifically, photos and testimony.” Wells looked like delivering this news was physically painful. “The investigation is ongoing, and I am not aware of all the details, but the evidence is… substantial.”

“Who?” The word came out as a whisper. “Who came forward?”

Wells hesitated, and in that hesitation, Stella already knew.

“Nathan Prescott.”

Oh, Nathan. No, no, no. Not Nathan.

She’d been wrong. About so many things in life, but especially about Nathan. She’d warned Warren away from him, and she’d joked about him many times, both in private and in public (particularly in public), but she had always assumed Nathan was the dangerous one, the unstable one, the one who’d hurt people, and therefore someone she should have always avoided.

And… did… was she the last one to know all of this? Maybe they… maybe he…. maybe…

“Oh,” Stella said.

The room was very quiet.

“Oh,” she said again, because her vocabulary had apparently been reduced to a single syllable.

Wells was watching her carefully. “Miss Hill?”

Stella couldn’t respond. Her brain was short-circuiting, trying to reprocess every interaction, every warning she’d given, and every assumption she’d made.

“I need to—” She tried to stand but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. The room swayed slightly. “I don’t—”

“Stay seated.” Wells’ voice was firm now. He moved around his desk and pressed something on his phone. “Michelle, bring a glass of water to my office. Immediately.”

And Stella stared at her hands. The nice blouse, the good jeans, the hair she’d straightened this morning because she wanted to look professional for her meeting with her mentor. Oh, her mentor… her mentor seemed to be a criminal. And she almost got in his car. It was hard to process everything.

A minute later, the door opened and Wells’ secretary (which Stella never once heard of) appeared with a glass of water. Wells took it and pressed it into Stella’s hands.

“Drink.”

And she drank. The water was cold, almost painfully so, and it helped. A little, thankfully, just enough to anchor her to the present moment instead of the spiraling horror of what-ifs.

“N-Nathan,” she managed. “Is he— what happens to him? Is he in trouble too?”

Wells sat on the edge of his desk, closer to her now, and his voice gentler than she’d ever heard it. “I can’t discuss specifics of the investigation. But I can tell you that Mr. Prescott came forward voluntarily. He’s cooperating with authorities. Beyond that…” He spread his hands. “It’s not my place to say.”

“He was a victim.” It wasn’t a question.

Wells didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

God. Stella pressed her palms against her eyes. Warren was right. Warren saw something in him that she didn’t, and she told him to stay away. What an amazing friend she was.

“The trip,” she heard herself say, her voice coming from very far away. “San Francisco. Is that—”

“The contest results are legitimate. You genuinely won.” Wells shifted, seeming relieved to move to more practical matters. “The organization confirmed this morning. Mr. Jefferson apparently had, erm, advance access to the results before the official announcement. How he obtained them is part of the investigation.”

So she’d won. For real real, not for play play, and not because Jefferson had rigged it. It was amazing to believe some judging panel somewhere had actually liked her photo. Maybe she was being too harsh on her own skills; she’d won on her own merit. And the man who’d championed her, who’d told her he believed in her, who’d made her feel seen for the first time in her life… that man was a monster. Her victory was real, but it very much tasted like ash.

“W-what happens now?” Her voice belonged to someone else, she thought. Someone very far away. If only she was there…

“The trip will still happen. Blackwell is committed to honoring your achievement.” Wells straightened slightly, doing his best to show some normalcy. “I’ll be accompanying you personally, given the… circumstances.”

“You?”

“Unless you’d prefer not to go. That’s entirely your choice.”

Go to San Francisco, win the prize, see the gallery, do all the things she’d dreamed about, except without the mentor who’d made those dreams feel possible. And with her principal instead, a man who smelled like bourbon and looked like he hadn’t slept in days. It was terrifying.

“I’ll go,” she said, because what else was there?

“Good. That’s… good.” Wells seemed relieved to have one thing settled, at least. “We’re offering counseling services to all students who may have been affected. I’d encourage you to—”

“Did… um, did he hurt Kate?” Stella interrupted. Her voice was steady now, eerily so. “Was he the reason she tried to—”

“I can’t discuss details of an ongoing investigation.”

“Mr. Wells, was he the reason Kate tried to kill herself?”

Wells’ face crumpled, just for a second, before he rebuilt it. To Stella, who had so many answers to questions, but today had so many questions to answers, that was answer enough.

“Stella.” Wells tried his best to keep his composure. “Given everything that’s happened, and given your… proximity to the situation, I’m going to have David Madsen keep an eye on you for the next few days. You know him, right?”

“David?” The head of security, she knew him well. He had a funny face, she always thought. “Why?”

“Precautionary measures. We don’t fully understand the scope of what Mr. Jefferson was doing, or who else might have been involved. Until the investigation is complete, I want to ensure all potentially affected students are safe.”

“Potentially affected.” The words echoed in her head. Was I potentially affected? Was I on some list somewhere? Was I next?

“Okay,” she heard herself say. “Sure. David. That’s… fine.” She was agreeing to things now. Just agreeing. It was easier than thinking, to be honest. It’s not like she had much of a choice.

Wells handed her another glass of water she didn’t remember him refilling. “Drink more. You’re very pale.” 

And so she drank.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Wells asked carefully. “Anything about your interactions with Mr. Jefferson that seemed… unusual? Anything that made you uncomfortable?”

There were… many things she could say right now, in light of everything. He touched her elbow. He tried to get her in his car. He looked at her sometimes like she was a photograph he was composing rather than a person. (That might’ve been too poetic.)

But I thought that was normal, Stella thought. I thought that was just how mentors were.

“I don’t know,” Stella said honestly. “I don’t know what’s normal anymore.”

Wells nodded like that was a reasonable answer. Maybe it was.

---

Saturday afternoon, Stella found herself in a hotel room in San Francisco, staring at the city skyline and trying to feel something.

The trip was supposed to be a celebration. It was pretty simple: winning photographer flies to the big city, sees her work in a gallery, soaks in the culture, returns home transformed and inspired. Yay! That was the narrative, what the contest brochure promised in its glossy, aspirational language.

The reality was… a bit different.

Admittedly, the gallery showing had been nice, genuinely nice. Her photo of Samuel, which in retrospect, was not so boring after all, looked different on a proper gallery wall. Bigger, duh, but also more… uh… intentional? The morning light catching the birdseed mid-fall, Samuel’s weathered hands open and giving, and the birds frozen in that moment of trust. A stranger had stood in front of it for almost five minutes, just looking, and Stella had watched from across the room feeling something she couldn’t name. It was beautiful.

But the event itself had been overshadowed by the circus surrounding it.

The Jefferson story had broken nationally two days before she’d arrived. “Renowned Photographer and Teacher Arrested for Crimes Against Students”; every outlet had a version of this headline, each one more sensational than the last. And because the universe had a sick sense of humor, this also meant that, of course, the legendary Stella Hill, Jefferson’s student, contest winner, and protégé-in-the-making, was suddenly a person of interest to every journalist covering the story.

Luckily for her, Wells had been surprisingly good at running interference. He’d stationed himself between Stella and the press like he was her very own secret service agent, deflecting questions and physically steering her away from anyone holding a microphone or a recorder. By the looks of it, he had some experience with that.

“Mr. Wells, can you confirm that Mr. Jefferson personally selected the contest winner?”

“The contest… was judged by an independent panel. Next question. Actually, no more questions.”

“Stella! Stella, did Jefferson ever make you uncomfortable? Were you aware of—”

“She’s seventeen. Back off.” Wells had actually growled that one, which was both alarming and oddly touching, as much as she didn’t want to admit it.

They’d ducked out of the gallery reception early, with Wells practically smuggling her through a side exit like she was a fugitive rather than an honoree. The fancy dinner the organization had planned was relocated to a quieter restaurant after a reporter showed up at the original venue. Hell, even the hotel had been switched at the last minute after someone leaked the booking.

It should have been exciting! Dramatic, maybe, the kind of thing that made for a great story later. But instead, it was just exhausting.

The gallery itself — that is, the actual moment of seeing her work displayed professionally, lit properly, appreciated by strangers who knew nothing about Blackwell or Jefferson or any of it —, that part had been good. Really good, even. There was an older woman with silver hair and paint-stained fingers who told Stella that the photo made her miss her father, and Stella had nearly cried right there in the middle of the reception.

She’d smiled through all of it. Shook hands, said thank you more times than she could count, posed for two dozen official photos, and was gracious and grateful and everything a winner was supposed to be. Maybe this is what fame was about.

But everything around that moment was tainted. For most of it, she felt almost nothing.

Well, perhaps not nothing, exactly. But it was a bit muted, and it was not so hard to understand why. She was in San Francisco, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, with her photograph hanging in an actual gallery, and all she could think about was Kate in a hospital bed, and Nathan in some lawyer’s office, and Jefferson in prison or awaiting trial or whatever he was right now.

The city was gorgeous, though, she’d give it that. Even through the fog of everything, San Francisco was undeniably beautiful…

---

Now it was almost 11 p.m. Wells was out cold in the other bed, fully clothed, his shoes still on, snoring with a really steady rhythm. His phone was still clutched in his hand, though the screen was dark. He’d spent the last hour before passing out on calls with lawyers and the school board, as she heard his voice getting progressively quieter and more defeated. She felt bad for him.

Stella lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the city. It was hardly exciting; traffic, a siren, someone laughing on the street below. These were normal sounds, life-going-on sounds.

She pulled out her phone and called Warren before she could overthink it. To her surprise, he answered on the first ring, like he’d been waiting for this moment. Perhaps times really had changed.

“Stella?”

“Hey.” Her voice came out softer than intended. “So— uh, how’s Arcadia Bay?”

“Same old, same old. Still standing, barely.” A pause. “How’s San Francisco?”

“Beautiful, I think. Weird, too. Underwhelming, uhh…” She turned onto her side, pulling the hotel blanket (which was unbelievably soft, probably a thread count she couldn’t even conceptualize!) up to her chin. “The gallery was nice, really. My photo looked good on a real wall. There was this old that lady cried and everything.”

“That’s amazing, Stella.”

“Yeah, it should be.” She stared at the window, at the city lights beyond. “But everything feels… I don’t know, muffled? It’s like I’m experiencing it through a wall, or one of those really cheap TV sets from the 90s. It’s something, but it’s like there’s something missing. I-I keep thinking I should be happier, but I just feel tired.”

“I get that.”

“How are you holding up? Really?”

Warren was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was raw and scraped clean of any pretense. “I’m not. I mean, I keep checking my phone for messages from Nathan. Which is stupid because his phone’s been disconnected for days and even if it wasn’t, he’s probably not allowed to—” He stopped for a moment, and then started again. “Everyone keeps asking me about him. About us, about whether I knew anything, and um… the cops interviewed me yesterday.”

“The cops?”

“Just routine, they said. Asking if Nathan ever told me anything about Jefferson, about Rachel, about what was going on. And I had to sit there and say no, because he didn’t. Not really. Like, he talked about being controlled and being dirty but uh, I didn’t truly understand it.” His voice cracked. “I should have understood.”

Imagining how Warren felt was something Stella didn’t really know how to handle. She was already dealing with a lot of issues on her own, from Kate to Jefferson and now the contest. But she couldn’t shut him out because the issues he was facing were, to an extent, her own, too.

It appeared that what Wells had told her about Jefferson seemed to be true, if not significantly worse than even he’d let on. The news had filled in the blanks that Wells couldn’t — or wouldn’t. For starters, Jefferson had a bunker. An actual bunker, hidden in an old Prescott barn on the outskirts of town, and a place she’d probably driven past a dozen times without thinking twice about it. The police had found photography equipment; professional grade, that is, and binders. These binders were full of photographs of people. Women, girls, Blackwell students, all tied up and posed in positions that made Stella’s skin crawl just reading the descriptions. They were all arranged like dolls in some sick photographer’s vision of art.

Among them was Rachel Amber.

Rachel hadn’t run away to LA to chase some dream of modeling and left everyone behind, as the rumors had said. If only it was true; she’d be living somewhere sunny, living the life she deserved and not being hounded by the paparazzi. Rachel was dead. Had been dead this entire time. And Jefferson was directly linked to it. The details were still emerging, but what had already come out was enough to make Stella physically ill.

And then came Nathan’s involvement in it. This was where things got complicated. It seemed Nathan had known about the bunker, but he had also been there. Not only that, but he had helped Jefferson with some of it. The reports varied, though some outlets made him sound like Jefferson’s willing apprentice, a rich psychopath who’d used his family’s money and property to enable a predator. And there were also a couple of others that painted him as a victim himself, a mentally ill teenager who’d been systematically groomed and manipulated by a charismatic adult who knew exactly which buttons to push.

The truth, perhaps, may have probably been somewhere in between. Stella wasn’t sure, and that was the part she couldn’t handle: that Nathan may have been directly involved in Rachel’s death. The things she’d heard, mostly from some students, said that he’d been present when Rachel died. Not only that, but that he’d tried to replicate what Jefferson had been doing, on his own, and something had gone wrong, leading to Rachel dying not in Jefferson’s hands, but in Nathan’s desperate, clumsy attempt to be what Jefferson wanted him to be.

Stella closed her eyes, pressing the phone harder against her ear. She didn’t want this information. Didn’t want to know it, didn’t want to carry it, and didn’t want to have to decide what it meant.

She hoped Warren felt the same way.

“I— uh, Warren, you couldn’t have—”

“Maybe I could have. If I’d pushed harder, i-if I’d asked the right questions instead of just holding him and telling him it would be okay—”

“You did what he needed.”

“Did I? Because… because he’s gone now and Jefferson’s arrested and Rachel’s dead and I’m sitting in my room… at 11 p.m. talking to you because you’re the only person who doesn’t look at me like I’m either a victim or an accomplice.”

Again, Stella closed her eyes. The weight of his pain was palpable, even through the phone, even across hundreds of miles. Thinking about what to say, she breathed for a moment, and thought of something that felt good enough.

“I… I don’t have answers for this,” Stella said, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t hate herself for admitting it. “I’ve been trying to figure it out too. Going back and forth, but, I don’t know. Like, one minute I think about him and I feel sorry for him, and the next minute I think about Rachel and Kate and I feel sick that I ever let him near you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m not saying he’s a monster, or anything, I’m just saying I don’t know what he is. And neither do you, to be honest.” She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “I think he might have been, uh, let’s say, coerced. Maybe Jefferson broke him down so completely that he didn’t know how to say no anymore. That’s… that’s a real thing, really. Grooming, manipulation, whatever you want to call it. People do terrible things when someone with power convinces them it’s normal. But…”

“But?”

“But he still did them, even if he was manipulated. Someone is still dead, Warren. Kate still ended up on that roof, and she could’ve been dead too. And Nathan was part of the chain that led to both of those things.”

The silence that followed was the heaviest they’d ever shared.

“Is it wrong to call him a victim?” Warren asked, his voice barely there. “E-even after everything?”

Stella did give some thought into this previously, but she lacked a good response to it. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “But I think he can be a victim and still have done terrible things, you get that? I think both of those can be true at the same time. And I think that’s the part that makes it so, um, hard, because we want it to be one or the other. We want him to be innocent or guilty, good or bad, but ugh, people aren’t like that.”

“When did you get wise?”

“I’m not wise. I-I’m the opposite of wise, really. I mean, I almost got in a killer’s car because he said he believed in my photography.” She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I couldn’t see what was happening to Kate, to Nathan, to my friends… when I told you to stay away from him because I thought he was dangerous, I may have been right, but all the wrong reasons. And, I mean… wow. He wasn’t dangerous because he was bad, he was dangerous because he was, hm, drowning, and drowning people pull others down with them.”

“Oh, Stella…”

“I’m not an everyday hero, Warren. That’s the fucking irony of winning that contest. Like, why? I failed Kate, I failed my family back home, who kept calling and I kept dodging because I didn’t want to worry them… and then I failed Nathan by assuming the worst about him instead of seeing what you saw.” Her voice wobbled. “It’s true. I’m not smart enough to figure any of this shit out. I keep thinking I should have the answers, because I’m the one everyone comes to for advice, right? I mean, haha, Stella, the late-night therapist, what a great moment! But… but I don’t know anything. I’ve never known anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is, though. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I don’t need to have the answers, or all the movie references in the world to make, but uh… maybe I just need to…” She trailed off, staring at the fog pressing against the window. Despite everything, the night outside was beautiful.

“…to what?”

“Well, to listen, I think. And uh, to not pretend I know more than I do.” Stella wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “And maybe to stop trying to be the smartest person in the room and just be, uh, a person in the room.”

Warren was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was steadier. “For what it’s worth… you’re one of the best people in every room I’ve been in.”

“Aw, come on.”

They both chuckled for a moment. 

The sentence hung between them, heavy with everything it contained.

“Warren,” Stella said gently. “This seems like a dumb question, and maybe it is but uh… I can’t help but ask, well, uh, you and Nathan…”

“Hm?”

“Can I be upfront with you?”

“Y-yeah, sure.”

“Did you love him?”

Silence. A long, long silence. They had been silent for so long (about twenty-five seconds) that the silence became its own answer.

“I—” Warren started and then stopped again. Stella could hear him shift; he was probably sitting up in bed. “It’s not— I don’t—”

There was another pause. Longer this time; maybe thirty seconds or so. From the other side of the phone, could hear him breathing, shaky and uneven, trying to find words for something that maybe didn’t have words yet.

“I…. well, I don’t know what love is,” he said finally. “Like, I know that sounds like a cop-out, but I don’t think I do… I mean, my parents love me, and that feels… safe, you know. There’s someone always being there for me, even when they don’t understand what I’m saying. My mom sends some stuff every week, and my dad calls every Sunday and asks the same three questions, and that’s love. I know that! Really.”

“Yeah,” Stella said softly.

“And Max. You know, I thought I… loved Max for a while. I think there’s definitely some, uh, admiration? You know, just wanting to be around someone because they made the world seem more interesting? I don’t know if that was love or just loneliness or whatever. It’s strange, uh, see.”

Stella said nothing and just listened.

“But Nathan was…” Warren’s voice went quiet for a bit. “Different. Yeah. it was different. When I was with him, I felt… warm. Well, I mean, besides literally— it’s like something inside my chest had been cold for a really long time and I didn’t even notice until it wasn’t anymore.”

He paused again.

“You know that… that thing where you’re so used to carrying something heavy that you forget it’s there? And then someone takes it from you and suddenly you realize how tired your arms were? That’s what it felt like being around him. It’s like I could put something down; I didn’t have to force myself to be interesting or earn my place. I could just… exist. And that was enough for him.”

Pulling the blanket up to her chin, Stella’s throat tightened and she pressed the phone harder against her ear.

“It wasn’t like how I feel about my parents,” Warren continued, almost talking to himself now, working through it in real-time. “That’s love, but it’s… above me? Like looking up at something. And it wasn’t like Max, which was more like looking across at someone and wanting them to look back. Which they did, sometimes, um. But with Nathan, it was like looking at someone and seeing yourself. Seeing all the broken, ugly, weird parts of yourself reflected in someone else, and instead of being ashamed, you just feel relief. Like, oh, you’re fucked up too? Thank God. Let’s be fucked up together.”

He let out a shaky breath. “And I… and I don’t know why, but despite everything he was so gentle. It sounds so funny, just seeing this guy who I didn’t like, and screamed at everyone like crazy and had all this rage and pain…. a-and he pressed his nose against mine like we were five and the world was so… so simple…”

Warren was crying now. She hated to see it, but Stella could hear it in his breathing, and in the way his words kept catching on something in his throat. In fact, she was so focused on the full picture she didn’t even ask him what that last sentence was about.

“And he laughed,” Warren whispered. “This tiny little laugh, like he was surprised he could still do something that soft. And I thought… I thought, oh. This is what it feels like! It’s not like those dramatic movie-love things, you know, from movies like Anything Else and stuff. It’s just someone letting you be gentle with them.”

“Warren…”

“Is that love? I… don’t know. I’ve never had anything to compare it to. But it felt like… amazing. That’s the best word I have for it. It felt amazing in a way that nothing else in my life has.”

He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was somewhat steadier. Clearer, even, but saying all of this out loud had given the feeling a shape he could hold.

“I think Nathan forgot how to be human somewhere along the way. I don’t think it’s a Jefferson thing, I don’t know, his childhood didn’t seem so good. But whatever happened stripped something away from him. And when we were together, y-you know, watching stupid movies, arguing about cinematography and stuff, um, I think he was remembering. You know when it’s like a language you spoke as a kid and forgot? So uh, yeah, relearning.”

Although she could not relate to the last two sentences, Stella could relate to what was being said. In fact, she was actually listening, and admittedly, thought she was doing a better job there than in most of her sessions. Though somewhat exhausted, she could not leave her friend hanging up to dry. Not this time.

“…and you?”

“Me too.” The admission was quiet but sure. “I spent so long trying to be smart enough, interesting enough, enough enough for people to want me around. But Nathan never wanted me to be anything. He just wanted me to be there. And being there, well, was enough for both of us.”

Warren took a moment, like the question had weight and he needed both hands to hold it. “So did I love him? Maybe. I think… yeah. I think I did. Or was starting to, I’m not sure, but it kind of crept up on me.”

His breath hitched, faint but audible. “And— and that’s the part that messes with me. I don’t even know what it means to love someone who might’ve helped hurt people. What does that say about me? Is it naïve, selfish? L-like, can you hold both things at once, good and bad, and still call it love? Do they cancel out? Or does one poison the other?”

Finally, he let out something between a laugh and a swallow. “Because if loving him means I’m excusing what he did, I-I don’t want that. But if I pretend I didn’t… love him just to make it cleaner, that feels like lying. And I’m so tired of lying to myself.”

“Well… I mean… I… I don’t think it works like that,” Stella said.

“Then how does it work?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t.” She pressed her phone harder against her ear, wishing she could reach through it. She was hardly an expert on love affairs, and barely understood her own feelings half the time, and yet there she was anyway. “But I know that what you felt was real. And I know that Nathan felt it too, really. That night at the party, when you two walked in… like, I’ve never seen either of you look like that before. Okay, maybe you,” she admitted softly, “but not him. He looked different, for sure.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“I think he found something in me he liked,” Warren said at last, his voice low and unsteady. “And I found something I also liked in him. And maybe that’s the worst part. He was starting to feel things that weren’t just fear, or anger, or that constant shame he carried around from time to time.” He swallowed. “But maybe it just happened too late. Or maybe it was just the wrong lifetime or something.”

“Oh, maybe there isn’t a right time for something like that,” Stella said gently. “Maybe it just… happens. You get what I mean, right?”

“Yeah, well. Uhh…” he exhaled. “Fantastic timing on my part. I befriend a guy who might be going to prison… and who I thought was perfect because our noses touched in the dark and it made a stupid squeaky sound.” His voice cracked around the memory. “I mean— uh, I really outdid myself on the whole ‘healthy choices’ front.”

“I see… but hey,” Stella said quickly. “Look, we already established we’re both disasters.”

“Ha, yeah,” Warren murmured. “Yeah, we did.”

They sat in silence for a little longer. It was fairly peaceful, too, in spite of everything they had gone through recently. Just two people trying to make sense of a world that had stopped making sense weeks ago. (Or years ago, in the case of Stella. But many things never made much sense to her anyway.)

“Ah, Stella?”

“Hmm?”

“Was San Francisco worth it? Even with everything?”

She didn’t answer right away. San Francisco seemed like a nice place, sure. And, when she wasn’t thinking about the other things, maybe it was an alright day… there was also Wells buying her an ice cream cone after the reception because neither of them knew what else to do. It was great, too; she loved vanilla, and that made everything marginally better. For a minute, it had felt simple.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “I think it was, even with everything. It was messy, sure, but… it was real.”

“Good. You deserve something good.”

“So do you.” She paused. “I’ll send you a photo, alright? Of me and the stuff here, so you can see what you’re missing.”

“I’d like that.”

“And Warren? Someday, when all of this is… uh, less hectic. I’d love to bring you here. You and me. No principals, no contests, no drama. We’ll eat overpriced food and take stupid tourist photos and not think about anything for a whole weekend.”

“No way… promise?”

“Promise.”

“That sounds really nice, Stella.”

“It will be! We’ve earned something nice, you know.” She chuckled. “For sure. And hey, go get some sleep. Actual sleep, please. And stop listening to those goddamn fan compilations, it’s just dumb.”

“You know me too well.”

“Unfortunately.”

Warren laughed. It was a real laugh, small but genuine. “Night, Stella. And um… thank you.”

“For what?”

“For uh… everything.  Especially for listening to my dumb dreams at 1 a.m, and not giving up on me when I was being a mess. For, uh, well, being my friend.”

“You’re my friend too, Warren. My best one, probably, or at least way up there. Which says a lot about both of us.”

“It really does.”

“Pfft, yeah. Goodnight, Warren.”

“Nighty-night.”

And the line went quiet.

Stella set her phone on her chest and stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to Wells snore and the city breathe outside the window. After a few minutes, she sat up and looked outside, for perhaps the first time since she’d arrived.

San Francisco at night was something else entirely. The fog had rolled in, because of course it had; this city ran on fog, as shown in South Park and elsewhere. But instead of hiding the view, it transformed everything. The lights from the buildings bled into the mist, all turning the skyline soft and luminous, like the city was glowing from the inside out. The Bay Bridge was a string of lights disappearing into white, and somewhere beyond the fog, and there was no way she could say it was not beautiful. Despite the fog and the cold and the strangeness of it, it was beautiful because of it. And maybe she didn’t need to elaborate on the details of it.

Stella grabbed her camera from the nightstand, then paused, set it down, and picked up her phone instead. No need for all these fancy things, she thought. She opened the camera app, set the timer to ten seconds, and quietly slipped out onto the tiny balcony.

The air hit her immediately; it was cold, it was a bit damp, and honestly smelled a lot like salt, for whatever reason. Stella was in her pajamas, no shoes, and she’d be freezing in about thirty seconds, but eh, that was fine. This wouldn’t take long anyway. She propped her phone against the railing at an angle that caught her and the city lights behind her, checked the frame, adjusted slightly, and hit the timer.

And she stepped back and stood there, looking at the small blinking light on her phone as it counted down. Nine. Eight. Seven. She didn’t have a good idea for a pose, and didn’t smile either, just standing with her arms at her sides, face blank, letting the camera see her exactly as she was. Oh, Stella. Poor Stella. Tired and confused and carrying more than she should have to, standing on a balcony in a city she’d dreamed of visiting, wearing pajamas covered in tiny stars, her hair a mess, and her eyes red from a conversation that had cracked something open inside her.

Naturally, she hated to think about these details. And yet she did anyway.

Six. Five. Four. She thought about Kate and Warren and Nathan. About Jefferson and the dark room and all the things she hadn’t known and all the things she should have seen. There were a lot of things she would have to look into when she and Wells got back to Arcadia Bay. A good thing she could do is visit Kate, she thought, and maybe give her a proper apology. She had no idea what to do about Nathan.

Three. Two. For a brief moment, she thought about the old woman who’d cried in front of her photograph, then about Samuel’s weathered hands open and giving, and finally about the birds frozen in that single moment of trust. What a ride, huh.

One.

On the last second, just as the shutter clicked, Stella smiled. It was not a big smile, not a performance, and certainly not the tight-lipped thing she’d been giving people all week. It was a simple, small, trembling, almost-crying smile that came from somewhere deep and true. I’m still here, I’m still standing, I’m still trying, she thought. And maybe that’s enough.

Stella stood on the balcony for another moment, letting the cold air wash over her. A few minutes later, she picked up her phone and looked at the photo. It was terrible, technically speaking; bad lighting, weird angle, half her face in shadow, her eyes too bright and too wet, and her smile crooked and fragile. If she submitted such a photo to the contest, she’d be declared no Everyday Hero. If she’d shown this to someone like Warren or Kate, or even Nathan, they’d probably find it bad. But maybe they’d appreciate her efforts, at least. That’s what friends were for, right…?

Looking at the photo again, she smiled a bit. Maybe she could send them some copies of these, starting with Warren. It had none of the bells and whistles of any photos she’d taken (not that any others had them either), Stella had to admit.

But it was the best photo she’d ever taken.