Chapter 2: Goodbye to Neverland

When my application was approved, I finally let out a breath I’d been holding for years.

I pressed the email to my chest, heart racing. The word ‘Congratulations’ looked fake, almost like a cruel joke. I reread it again and again, tracing my name with trembling fingers. My phone buzzed with notifications—none from Derek. For the first time, I didn’t care.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My eyes were red and swollen before I even realized.

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my old MIT sweatshirt, a laugh bubbling up with the tears. The world outside—the maple trees, a distant honk—suddenly felt electric, alive in a way it hadn’t in years.

No one knew I’d been given a second chance.

It was my secret, tucked deep inside, warming me in a way Derek’s smile never could. I let myself savor the privacy of this new beginning. No one had to know what I’d been through to get here.

I was twenty-one.

Right before I was about to confess to Derek.

I remembered circling the date on my calendar in red ink, counting down the days like it was Christmas Eve—a mix of hope and dread. My friends joked that I was finally going to ‘level up.’

That day, I wore the dress he’d had custom-made for me, and booked the most luxurious hotel in Maple Heights.

The lobby sparkled with chandeliers, the air heavy with roses. My dress—midnight blue silk, hugging my waist—felt like a secret weapon. I practiced my smile in the mirror, repeating lines scribbled on sticky notes.

I invited a crowd of friends to witness the start of our love.

My college roommate, Derek’s business partner’s son, two girls from my volunteer group—they wore party hats and snapped selfies, teasing me about finally making a move. It felt like a Netflix rom-com, the kind you watch with popcorn in your lap.

For as long as I could remember, Derek was always there. My parents, both with Doctors Without Borders, were always somewhere else.

Pictures of them in Sudan, Brazil, Haiti—my mom waving from behind a mask, my dad squinting in the desert sun—lined our hallway. They’d call on birthdays, send postcards that showed up months late. Derek was my home base.

I only saw my parents a handful of times a year.

Sometimes I hugged their letters to my chest, imagining the scent of hospital soap and faraway rain. The ache of missing them was a dull companion I never quite shook.

I spent nearly half my life with Derek.

We watched the Super Bowl together every year, our own tradition—wings, bad commercials, and laughter. He taught me to drive, took me to the fair, was there for every scraped knee and heartbreak.

Through good times and bad.

He was there when I graduated, when I failed my first college physics test, when my cat died. I knew his favorite pizza topping (extra mushrooms) and the way he hummed when lost in thought.

Everyone assumed I’d be Derek’s bride.

Neighbors, family friends—they all gave us knowing smiles, nudging each other at block parties. I used to think it was fate, written into my life like the stars on our flag.

In my previous life, a few close friends knew about my plan. Their advice made my cheeks burn.

They sent love song playlists, gave pep talks in the group chat, and threatened to crash the party if I chickened out. One even offered to write my speech. I laughed so hard, cheeks burning with anticipation.

Secretly, I looked forward to it with all my heart.

I rehearsed my words nightly, whispering into my pillow, hoping I’d sound as brave out loud as I did in my head.

But no one expected Derek to reject me.

Just like before.

It was as if Derek already knew what I was about to do.

He walked in that night with a cautious smile, a stiffness in his step only I would notice. His gaze lingered on the cake, the decorations, our friends’ hopeful faces. Even then, I could see him building his walls.

His brows furrowed, two fingers rubbing together as he searched for the right words to turn me down.

That nervous tic—his poker ‘tell’—was unmistakable. The room felt colder, like someone had opened a window in January.

His eyes were complicated, unreadable.

I tried to read him: pity? Guilt? Was there something deeper, or was I fooling myself? His blue eyes, usually so warm, were stormy and distant.

At the time, I thought Derek was just worried about our age gap—that I couldn’t tell love from a crush.

Maybe he saw me as a kid who didn’t know real heartbreak. I told myself he was protecting me, even as my heart cracked.

So I smiled and said, “Uncle Derek, I like you. My heart can’t help but beat faster whenever I see you.”

My voice wobbled, but I tried to play it cool, like I was reading a line from a play. The words felt too small for what burned in my chest, but I let them out anyway, hoping he’d finally see me.

“When I can’t see you, I miss you like crazy. It’s a feeling I can’t suppress, no matter what.”

My friends giggled, some of them tearing up. I stared at Derek, hoping he’d smile, blush, say anything—anything at all.

“I’m very sure—what I feel for you is love.”

My confession echoed in the room, louder than the music. I waited, counting the seconds, feeling like the world was holding its breath with me.

The others joined in the commotion, and then everything just dissolved into confusion.

Someone popped a confetti cannon by mistake, laughter and shouts bouncing off the ceiling. A few friends started chanting, but the joy felt forced, tinged with awkwardness. The party fizzled before it even began.

That day, I kept smiling, but it never reached my eyes.

I thanked everyone for coming, pretending not to notice how Derek’s gaze avoided mine. Inside, disappointment knotted in my stomach.

He was about to speak, but I interrupted: “Uncle Derek, the research project I’ve been working on for a year wrapped up last week.”

I needed to change the subject, to salvage some pride. My voice was too bright, sitcom-fake.

“I’m really happy, so I wanted to celebrate.”

I lifted my glass in a fake toast, my friends clinking cups and making jokes. Derek just stared, caught off guard.

Derek was stunned.

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked lost—like he’d stepped onto the wrong train and didn’t know how to ask for help. I almost pitied him.

My friends exchanged looks, about to speak.

They started to murmur, eyes darting between me and Derek. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

I glanced at them lightly.

One raised a brow, another bit her lip. With a silent nod, I told them to back off. I needed space.

They gave awkward smiles and quietly put away the banner they’d made: “Say yes to her, say yes to her.”

The glittery sign drooped, someone stuffing it behind a chair. My heart ached watching their hope drain away.

The confession ended in nothing.

It was like the end of a bad sitcom episode—no laughs, no music, just the quiet shuffle of people leaving. I felt hollow, my dreams dissolving in the empty air.