Chapter 7: Ghosts and Substitutes

He nodded and smiled at me. Suddenly, I understood why, even with all his jerk tendencies, so many girls still wanted a shot with him. Whatever else, he really was heartbreakingly good-looking.

He looked almost ethereal in the moonlight, his smile softer than I’d ever seen it. For a moment, all the drama faded away.

Especially standing in the moonlight, smiling gently—tall and elegant, as bright as the moon itself.

It was a picture-perfect moment, the kind you remember years later.

His smile was sincere, not the usual lazy smirk.

He seemed almost vulnerable, letting me see the real him for the first time.

Maybe the moonlight was too gentle, because his expression and voice were softer than ever. He looked at me, voice low: “Then, deskmate, see you at Columbia.”

He said it like a promise.

I didn’t reply, just quietly looked at him.

I let the silence stretch, unsure what to say. It felt like something was ending, and something new was just out of reach.

Finally, I said, “Goodbye.”

I turned and walked away, the night air cool on my skin. I thought we wouldn’t meet again.

He called me before acceptance letters came out. I wasn’t surprised he’d know my results before I did.

He probably had connections everywhere—teachers, counselors, maybe even the admissions office.

He was probably so mad he laughed, and on the phone, he said three times, voice sharp: “Lauren Merritt, well done.”

His voice was tight, almost brittle. I could hear pride and something else—maybe regret.

I held the phone in silence until the line went dead.

I let the dial tone ring in my ear, feeling a strange mix of relief and regret.

Later, when the results were posted, the school put up a red banner congratulating me on being admitted to Yale as the top scorer. Underneath was another banner with Graham’s name—he went to Columbia.

The whole school buzzed. Parents snapped photos, teachers gave speeches. For a moment, we were both celebrities—two big names, two different paths.

Yale and Columbia were both on the East Coast, just a few hours apart by train.

The city felt smaller than I’d imagined, the campuses linked by Amtrak and late-night coffee runs.

But I figured, with Graham’s pride, he wouldn’t reach out again.

He’d always been stubborn, and I doubted he’d contact me unless he had something to prove.

We were always from two different worlds. Even in the same region, I thought we’d never meet again unless by accident.

I dove into my studies, barely looking up from my books. The world outside became a blur of deadlines and late-night pizza.

And so it was.

The seasons changed, and I settled into my new life. Graham became a distant memory, like a faded Polaroid.

I went to my new school and became a new legend.

Professors started to recognize my name. My classmates asked me to lead study groups. I was back in my element—focused, untouchable.

Standing on my dorm balcony, I could even see the old trees lining Columbia’s campus, but until junior year, I never saw Graham.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d look across the city lights and wonder if he ever thought of me. But I always shook it off, reminding myself that we’d both moved on.