Chapter Text
High school was supposed to be an era. A fleeting, golden time where memories were made in the cracks between responsibility—a time of firsts, of friendships that felt like they would last forever, of learning not just from textbooks but from mistakes. It was supposed to be something you looked back on with nostalgia, something that shaped you, something that mattered.
But for Lucy Chen, high school wasn’t an era. It was a sentence.
She lived it like a prisoner counting down days, except there was no end in sight. The walls weren’t made of concrete and steel, but they trapped her just the same—built from expectation, pressure, and the suffocating weight of never being good enough.
She was a junior. Top of her class. Advanced Placement everything. A walking success story on paper. She should have felt smart. People told her she was.
Her teachers smiled when they called on her, as if she was some prodigy. Her friends teased her about being a genius. Strangers envied her, their voices laced with admiration. You’re so lucky to be that smart. God, I wish school was as easy for me as it is for you.
But Lucy wasn’t lucky. School wasn’t easy. And she didn’t feel smart.
Every test she aced, every essay she perfected, every flawless report card she brought home—it wasn’t proof of her intelligence. It was proof of her fear. Fear of what would happen if she failed.
Because no matter what she did, no matter how much she gave, it was never enough.
Perfect grades, because anything less was a disgrace.
Perfect attendance, because she didn’t have the luxury of slowing down.
Perfect body, because even her appearance was a reflection of their expectations.
Perfect reputation, because they wanted a daughter to be admired.
Her parents had spent their lives molding her, carving away anything that didn’t fit their vision of success. She wasn’t a child to them—she was an investment. A carefully built masterpiece, flawless from the outside, cracking beneath the surface.
She had tried. God, she had tried. She had given them everything, hoping one day she would finally be enough.
But she wasn’t.
She never was.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Her alarm shattered the silence. Lucy’s eyes flew open, her chest heaving as if she had been pulled from a nightmare.
Her hand fumbled for her phone, silencing it with a sharp tap.
Her head throbbed.
Four hours of sleep. Maybe less.
She turned her head, staring at the calendar pinned to the wall.
Today was the day.
The thought sent a cold chill down her spine, but she shoved it aside. She couldn’t think about that now.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sat there for a moment, willing her body to move. Her limbs felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and something worse.
Still, she stood.
Her feet met the cold floor, the chill biting into her skin, snapping her from the fog that clouded her mind. She moved slowly, as if each step was deliberate, each action requiring more effort than the last. She walked to the closet, the familiar scent of cedar surrounding her as she slid open the door.
Her gaze swept across the rows of neatly hung clothes—blouses, skirts, dresses, slacks—everything perfectly organized, every piece an expectation of who she was supposed to be. She picked out a long black-and-white checkered dress, its fabric soft but substantial, reaching all the way down to her ankles. It was the kind of dress that made her feel both exposed and hidden, the checkered pattern drawing attention while the long, flowing silhouette shielded her from view. The puffed white sleeves softened the starkness of the black, giving it an air of innocence, though she knew it wasn’t really innocent at all.
She pulled off her pajamas and slid into the dress, the cool fabric against her skin sending a slight shiver down her spine. The dress hugged her waist just enough, the pattern wrapping around her body like the expectations that always followed her. She adjusted the fit, smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric, but it felt almost too tight—clinging in places she didn’t want to think about. The hem brushed the tops of her shoes, swaying as she turned in front of the mirror.
She caught her reflection, her eyes scanning her body, taking in every detail. Her hand slid down her waist, her fingers tracing the curve of her hips, before she pulled them away, glancing at her face. Her eyes looked tired—too tired—but she kept the smile there, faint, just enough to convince anyone who might ask that everything was fine.
One more day. She looked good. She could at least pretend for a little longer.
She walked to the bathroom, her steps dragging just a little, the weight of the dress and the moment pressing down on her. She adjusted her ponytail, pulling her hair into a neat, simple style. Then she did her makeup—nothing too heavy, just a bit of concealer to cover the dark circles under her eyes, mascara to make her lashes look fuller, a hint of blush to add some color to her face. The routine was automatic now, the movements precise, as if the act of fixing herself up could somehow fix everything else too.
But she knows she couldn’t, besides, she had already made up her mind
When she was done, she stood there for a moment, staring at herself in the mirror. She almost didn’t recognize the girl staring back at her—so composed, so polished. But under it all, she felt empty.
Grabbing her backpack from the chair by the door, she trudged downstairs. The house felt too quiet, the air thick with the unspoken things that hung between them. When she stepped into the kitchen, her father, sat at the table with the newspaper spread out in front of him, his face hidden behind it. He lowered it as she walked in, his gaze flicking over her for a brief moment before he spoke, his voice neutral.
“You look nice, dear,” he said, his eyes already back on the paper, not waiting for a response.
Lucy gave him a small smile, her lips pulling tight. “Thanks daddy.”
Her mother, seated at the counter with her coffee, didn’t look up immediately. But after a moment, her eyes shifted over to Lucy, scanning her from head to toe. The silence stretched between them, cold and heavy.
“It’s a little tight ,”
Lucy took a deep breath, shutting her eyes for a second.
Today was the day
“ It’s supposed to fit like this.”
Her mother pursed her lips, setting down her coffee with a deliberate clink against the counter. “That’s not the point,” she said coolly, eyes sweeping over Lucy again. “It doesn’t look appropriate.”
Lucy’s fingers curled around the strap of her backpack, nails pressing into the fabric. “Appropriate for what?”
Her mother sighed, shaking her head. “For school. For being in public. For being seen.”
Lucy let out a breathy laugh, incredulous. “It’s a long dress.”
“It’s fitted.”
“It’s fabric.”
Her mother gave her a pointed look. “It’s not about what it is, it’s about how it looks.”
Lucy’s jaw tightened. “And how does it look?”
“Like something I don’t want my daughter wearing.”
There it was.
The verdict. The decision already made for her, as it always was.
Lucy forced herself to stay calm. “It’s literally a dress.”
“It’s a statement,” her mother corrected. “And not a good one.”
A sharp heat built in Lucy’s chest, spreading to her throat. “What statement do you think I’m making?”
Her mother gave her a knowing look, voice smooth as glass. “You already know.”
Lucy felt something inside her snap.
For years, she had bitten her tongue. Let things slide. Played her part. She knew how this game was supposed to go—she was supposed to shrink back, sigh in resignation, change her clothes, and let her mother win. Again.
But today wasn’t like every other day.
Today was the day.
And for the first time, she didn’t care.
She squared her shoulders. “No, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”
Her mother’s eyebrows lifted slightly, taken aback by the pushback. “Don’t be difficult.”
Lucy let out a humorless laugh. “I’m not being difficult. I’m asking a question.”
Her mother sighed, exasperated. “You’re being disrespectful.”
“No,” Lucy shot back, voice sharpening. “I’m just done pretending that your opinion is a fact.”
Her mother’s jaw tightened. “You need to watch your tone.”
“Why?” Lucy demanded, heat bubbling under her skin. “Because it makes you uncomfortable when I don’t just sit there and take it?”
The silence that followed was thick, electric.
Her father, who had been flipping through his paper like he wasn’t part of the conversation, finally set it down with a sigh. “Let’s not start the morning with an argument,” he said mildly.
Lucy barely spared him a glance. “Then tell her to stop picking one.”
Her mother scoffed. “This isn’t an argument, it’s a discussion about what’s appropriate.”
“It’s control,” Lucy corrected. “And I’m over it.”
Her mother exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “We’ll see about that. After school, we’re going to the mall and getting you some respectable clothes.”
Lucy almost laughed. The mall? After school? Like any of this would matter by then?
She wouldn’t be coming home.
Her mother’s words bounced off her, weightless. They didn’t matter. None of this did. Not the argument, not the dress, not the way her father kept glancing between them like he was debating whether to step in or let them tear each other apart.
After school, after everything, she was going to the beach.
She could already picture it—the sky stretching endlessly above her, the waves crashing against the shore, the cold water swallowing her whole.
The thought settled in her bones, strangely steadying.
Her mother kept talking, voice clipped and controlled, but Lucy wasn’t listening anymore.
She shifted her backpack higher onto her shoulder, fingers tightening around the strap. “I’m done with this conversation,” she said, her voice eerily calm.
Her mother bristled. “ No ma’am, you do not just get to walk away from this.”
“Watch me.”
She turned on her heel before her mother could say another word, storming toward the door with purpose. The sharp click of her shoes against the floor echoed through the house, each step carrying the weight of something final. Her father sighed from the table, the rustle of his newspaper the only acknowledgment of the scene unfolding in front of him.
Her mother’s voice chased after her, clipped and growing sharper with every word. “You better come back here right now, Lucy.”
She didn’t.
She grabbed her keys from the entryway table, yanking open the front door. The cool morning air hit her skin like a slap, but she welcomed it, let it ground her as she stepped outside.
“Lucy Elizabeth C—”
“Fuck you.”
The words came out steady, unshaken, even as her heart slammed against her ribs. She didn’t wait to see her mother’s reaction. She didn’t care. The door swung shut behind her with a hollow finality.
She climbed into her car, her hands still shaking as she shoved the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, but she just sat there for a moment, gripping the wheel, breathing hard.
She should feel something.
Guilt. Regret. Fear.
But all she felt was done.
The house loomed in her rearview mirror, but she didn’t look at it. She pulled out of the driveway without a second thought, her fingers tightening around the wheel as she turned onto the street.
The road stretched ahead of her, the same one she had taken to school every morning for years. But today, it felt different.
Today was the last time.
The thought settled in her chest, heavy but not suffocating. She had waited for this day for what felt like forever—the day where she didn’t have to keep going, didn’t have to keep pretending.
The day where it would finally stop.
Most people would never understand. To them, suicide was some great tragedy, something unnatural and horrifying. But to Lucy, it wasn’t any of those things.
It was relief.
It was slipping out of too-tight skin, shedding the weight of expectation, of exhaustion, of everything. It was closing her eyes and finally—finally—never having to open them again.
Of course, she was scared.
But the fear was nothing compared to the peace waiting on the other side.
She had spent so long trying to figure out how. Pills were the obvious choice, but she couldn’t risk someone finding her before it was too late. Not at school, and definitely not at home.
Jumping had crossed her mind more than once, but the thought of standing on a rooftop, staring down at the ground, made her stomach turn.
Bleeding out was too slow. Too painful.
Hanging? No.
So, she had chosen the ocean.
The pier, where the water stretched out endlessly, swallowing everything in its depths.
All she had to do was climb over the railing.
Let go.
Disappear.
Her fingers flexed against the steering wheel, her throat tightening.
It was almost time.
One more day.
And then, it wouldn’t matter anymore.
Lucy pulled into the school parking lot, maneuvering into a familiar space near the back. The building loomed in front of her, just as uninviting as ever, but today, it didn’t seem so suffocating.
Today, it was just another stop on her way to the end.
She cut the engine and sat there for a moment, gripping the wheel. The world outside continued as it always did—students spilling out of their cars, backpacks slung over shoulders, voices overlapping in the crisp morning air. She took a slow breath, then unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped out, pulling her backpack higher onto her shoulder.
Inside, the halls buzzed with the usual morning energy—locker doors slamming, laughter ringing out, conversations blending together into an indistinct hum.
And then, there was Jackson.
He was leaning against his locker, mid-conversation with someone she didn’t recognize, but the second his eyes landed on her, he grinned. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Lucy Chen,” he said, pushing off the metal. “You’re late.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “By, like, two minutes.”
“Still counts.”
She smiled, shaking her head. She was going to miss him.
Jackson had been there since freshman year—since she was the quiet, uncertain girl who didn’t know where she fit in. He had picked her, for whatever reason, and never let go. He had always been good to her, in a way that made her feel like she mattered.
And today, she almost wished she could tell him goodbye.
“So,” Jackson said, falling into step beside her as they made their way down the hall. “Let me guess—your parents being their usual selves?”
Lucy let out a breathy laugh. “More or less.”
Jackson groaned. “I swear, one of these days, you need to tell them to get over themselves.”
“Yeah,” she said, voice light. “Maybe one of these days.”
“You think I’m joking, but I’m dead serious. They have you so wrapped up in their rules, you don’t even get to be a person. Like, when’s the last time you did something for you?”
Lucy hesitated. “I—”
“Exactly,” Jackson said. “You should, like, sneak out. Go do something reckless. Get a tattoo or whatever. Something just for the hell of it.”
She smiled, but the ache in her chest deepened. If only he knew.
They turned a corner, the classroom just ahead, but before she could step inside, a voice stopped her.
“Lucy, a word?”
Mrs. Luna Grey stood there, her expression calm but firm, hands clasped in front of her. She was a woman Lucy had always respected—one of the few adults in this building who didn’t feel like she was constantly picking her apart.
She had been the school counselor for years, married to Coach Grey, who led the football team to more victories than Lucy could count. But Mrs. Grey wasn’t just a title. She was the kind of person who made a point to know her students. She was the one who shook Lucy’s hand every time she won an award, who always had something kind to say about her work ethic, who never looked at her like she was anything less than capable.
She was nice.
Which only made this worse.
Lucy’s stomach twisted. You didn’t get pulled aside by the school counselor for nothing.
She glanced at Jackson, forcing a smile. “I’ll catch up.”
He hesitated, eyes flickering between her and Mrs. Grey, but eventually, he nodded and disappeared into the classroom.
Lucy turned back, shifting her backpack higher on her shoulder. “Hey,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Is something wrong?”
Mrs. Grey gave her a small smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I need to talk to you for a minute.”
Lucy’s pulse stuttered.
This wasn’t good.
She swallowed, keeping her expression neutral as she nodded. “Okay.”
Mrs. Grey gestured for her to follow, and Lucy fell into step beside her, her backpack suddenly feeling heavier on her shoulders. The halls around them were still full of students—laughing, talking, living their lives like nothing was wrong. Like Lucy wasn’t walking toward a conversation that made her skin prickle with unease.
She kept her head up, her face blank, but inside, her thoughts twisted and turned.
How could she know?
She had been so careful. Every smile, every laugh, every perfectly timed joke—she had mastered the art of looking fine. She had never let a single crack show. Even this morning, even during the fight with her mother, she hadn’t said why she didn’t care. Hadn’t given anyone a reason to suspect her.
So what was this?
Had she slipped? Had someone noticed something she hadn’t meant to show?
Mrs. Grey didn’t say anything as they walked, her pace steady, her expression unreadable. That was the worst part—Lucy couldn’t tell if this was a routine check-in or something more.
They reached the front office. Mrs. Grey stepped inside first, holding the door open for Lucy to follow.
She hesitated for only a second before stepping in.
“Go ahead and close the door,” Mrs. Grey said gently.
Lucy’s stomach twisted.
Definitely not good.
She turned, shutting the door with a soft click, the sound impossibly final. When she turned back, Mrs. Grey was already moving toward her desk, motioning for Lucy to sit.
Lucy lowered herself into the chair across from her, her hands tightening around the straps of her backpack in her lap. She willed her heartbeat to slow, forced herself to breathe evenly.
She wasn’t caught. This could be anything.
Mrs. Grey folded her hands on the desk, watching her carefully. “How are you doing, Lucy?”
The question was gentle. Too gentle.
Lucy forced a small smile, the kind she had given a hundred times before. “I’m fine.”
“ Your classes going okay?”
Lucy shifted slightly in her seat. “Yeah. I mean, they’re hard, but I can manage.” She forced a small shrug, as if the weight of her workload wasn’t suffocating her most days. As if she hadn’t spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if any of it would even matter.
Mrs. Grey hummed in understanding. “Have you looked into college applications yet?”
Lucy blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Uh…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve looked.”
Mrs. Grey nodded like she expected that answer. “That’s good. You’re ahead of a lot of students your age.”
Lucy forced a small smile. “Yeah, well… my parents would kill me if I wasn’t.”
Mrs. Grey chuckled softly, but there was something assessing in her gaze, like she was waiting for Lucy to say more. She didn’t.
Instead, she shifted in her chair, adjusting the strap of her backpack in her lap. “Is that what you wanted to talk about? College?”
Mrs. Grey exhaled, her smile fading slightly. “Not exactly.” She leaned forward, folding her hands together on the desk. “I wanted to ask if you’d consider tutoring someone.”
Lucy blinked. “Tutoring?”
“There’s a senior who needs help. His grades are slipping, and if he doesn’t get them up, he’ll be academically ineligible.”
Lucy’s stomach lurched. No. No, no, no.
She gripped the edge of her desk, fingers pressing hard against the wood as a cold wave of dread rolled over her. This couldn’t happen. Not now.
Tutoring wasn’t something she could squeeze into an afternoon, something she could nod along to and fake her way through. It would stretch on for weeks—maybe months. Time she didn’t have. Time she wasn’t supposed to have.
This would ruin everything.
She forced her expression to remain neutral, even as panic clawed up her throat. Her mind was already spinning, recalculating, looking for a way out. She had planned for everything—every detail, every step. But this? This wasn’t part of the equation.
“I appreciate you thinking of me,” she said carefully, each word like stepping across thin ice, “but I really don’t think I have the time for something like this.”
Mrs. Grey’s gaze was steady, unreadable but not unkind. “I know you’re busy, Lucy. You’ve got a full schedule, and you already work harder than most students I see. But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could handle it.”
Lucy shook her head, gripping the strap of her backpack so tightly her knuckles turned white. “It’s not about whether I can handle it. I just can’t commit to something long-term.”
Long-term.
The word twisted like a knife in her gut. She wouldn’t be here long enough for anything “long-term.” That was the whole point.
Mrs. Grey leaned in slightly, her voice softer now, more insistent. “He’s close to being kicked off the team. And if that happens, he could lose his football scholarship.”
Lucy’s stomach clenched. She didn’t want to care. She couldn’t care.
“He’s been struggling,” Mrs. Grey continued. “He needs someone who won’t just give him the answers but will push him to actually learn. You’re disciplined, patient. You could make a real difference, Lucy.”
Lucy swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet Mrs. Grey’s eyes, though it felt like an unbearable weight pressing down on her chest.
I won’t be here.
She wanted to scream it. Wanted to shove the words between them like a shield, like a reason to end this conversation right now. But she couldn’t say it.
Instead, she inhaled sharply and shook her head again. “I appreciate that,” she said, voice too measured, too even, “but I really don’t think I have the time.”
Mrs. Grey nodded slowly, like she’d expected that answer. But she wasn’t giving up. “I understand. And I wouldn’t be asking if I thought there was another option.” She paused, studying Lucy for a long moment before offering, “How about this—you meet with him once. Just to talk. If you don’t think it’ll work, I won’t ask again.”
Lucy hesitated.
One meeting. That was it.
She could sit there, listen, nod politely, then say no. That would be easier than arguing. Mrs. Grey would see she’d tried, and that would be the end of it.
And then—her plan could still go exactly the way she intended.
She exhaled slowly and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll meet him.”
Mrs. Grey’s expression softened with relief. “Thank you, Lucy. I really appreciate this.” She pulled a notepad from her desk, scribbling something down in neat, looping handwriting. “I’ll let him know to meet you in the library during lunch.”
Lucy watched as she tore the paper from the pad and slid it across the desk. A name and a number. Timothy Bradford.
“He’s a good kid,” Mrs. Grey said as Lucy took the paper. “But he’s tense. Always on edge. I’ve known him for a while, and I don’t think he’s ever really learned how to let go of things. Football is everything to him, and right now, it’s slipping through his fingers.”
Lucy glanced at the name again, then folded the paper neatly and tucked it into her pocket. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, keeping her voice light.
Mrs. Grey smiled. “That’s all I ask.”
Lucy returned the smile, stood, and adjusted the straps of her backpack. “I should get to class.”
Mrs. Grey nodded. “Of course. Thank you again, Lucy.”
Lucy turned for the door, her steps measured and even. But inside, she felt nothing at all.
She would meet him. She would refuse. And by the end of the day, none of this would matter.