Page 9 of Boards & Betrayal

I forced a smile, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. The thought of facing Thomas again was terrifying, but maybe—just maybe—it could be a step toward healing.

As Kara launched into plans for the event, excitement bubbling in her voice, I steeled myself for what lay ahead. This was for her—and maybe even for me, too.

I returnedto my dorm room later that afternoon, the weight of my decision pressing down on me like a lead blanket. I dropped my bag on the bed and leaned against the door, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked haunted, dark circlesmarring the skin beneath them. How was I supposed to face him again?

My mind spun with memories of that night—the connection, the intensity, and the heartbreak that followed. Thomas's touch, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world. And then the aftermath, the confusion, and the pain of losing something I hadn't even known I wanted so desperately until it was gone.

I ran a hand through my hair, tugging at the ends as if that would somehow ground me. Seeing Thomas again would bring everything back. The grief I hadn't fully processed, and the tangled mess of feelings I still harbored for him. It felt like opening a wound that had barely begun to heal.

But it was inevitable now. Kara needed me, and I couldn't let her down. I had to prepare myself for whatever came next, no matter how much it hurt.

I pushed off from the door and moved to my desk, sitting down heavily in the chair. My camera sat there, a reminder of what I needed to focus on—the job at hand. If I could just concentrate on taking photos, maybe I could get through this without falling apart.

My phone buzzed with a text from Kara:

Thanks again for doing this. You’re amazing.

I sighed and typed back:

No problem.

Lying back on my bed, I stared up at the ceiling. My thoughts drifted back to Thomas—his eyes when he accepted his award, the little dimple that popped whenever he smiled. The tensionhad been palpable, even from a distance. How would it be when we were face-to-face?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This wasn't just about Kara or even about Thomas—it was about me finding a way to move forward, to confront my past rather than hide from it.

Rolling over, I grabbed my journal from the nightstand and opened it to a blank page. Writing had always helped me sort through my thoughts when they became too overwhelming.

With pen in hand, I started jotting down everything that came to mind—the fears, the memories, and most importantly, what I needed to do to get through this.

Because no matter how daunting it seemed, facing Thomas again was something I had to do—for Kara, for myself, and maybe even for some semblance of closure.

I put down the pen and closed the journal with a sigh. This was just another step in a long journey of healing—one that wouldn't be easy but was necessary all the same.

I pushed the journal away, feeling the weight of my thoughts settle uncomfortably in my chest. Grabbing my laptop, I opened it and navigated to the folder with the photos from yesterday's shoot. The thumbnails loaded slowly, each tiny image a snapshot of moments I could never have.

I clicked on one of the photos—a close-up of the baby's tiny hand curled around its mother's finger. The soft lighting highlighted the delicate wrinkles in the baby's skin, and there was an innocence there that tugged at something deep inside me.

Another photo showed the baby cradled in Jamie's arms, gazing down with expressions of pure love and awe. Her eyes shone with a pride and protectiveness that made my heart ache.

A third picture captured a candid moment—the baby yawning, its tiny mouth open wide as if it were surprised by itsown existence. Jamie laughed softly in the background, her joy evident even in this frozen frame.

My vision blurred as tears welled up, spilling over onto my cheeks. My chest tightened painfully, a familiar but unwelcome sensation. It had been months since the loss, but the grief still clung to me like a shadow I couldn't shake.

I slammed the laptop shut and pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears. "Stop," I whispered to the empty room. "Just… stop… feeling this."

It didn't make sense. The baby had only been inside me for ten days—ten days of hope and possibility that had been ripped away before they could fully take root. And yet, here I was, still drowning in sorrow as if I had lost something much more tangible.

My heart squeezed painfully at the thought. I wiped my face with trembling hands, frustration mingling with my sadness. No more wallowing. I needed to do something—anything—to break free from this cycle of grief.

Deciding on action, I stood up and grabbed my gym bag from the closet. The gym on campus might offer a temporary escape, a way to channel all this pent-up emotion into something physical.

I changed into workout clothes quickly and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. With one last glance at the closed laptop on my desk, I took a deep breath and headed out the door, determined to find some semblance of relief in motion.

The gym'sfluorescent lights flickered as I stepped inside. Thankfully, it was empty. Most students were probably off getting ready for graduation, their minds far from the echoing quiet of this space. The solitude felt like a gift.

I made my way to the treadmills, each machine lined up in silent readiness. I selected one in the middle, setting my water bottle in the holder and draping my towel over the side. I plugged in my headphones and scrolled through my playlist until I found blink-182. Their upbeat rhythms were perfect for drowning out my thoughts.

The treadmill whirred to life beneath me. I started with a slow jog, easing into a rhythm that matched the music's tempo. With each step, I felt the weight of my emotions begin to lift, replaced by the steady beat of my heart and the pulse of the music.

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