Andrew returned home in the early hours of Sunday.
The snow had followed him all the way to the outskirts of the city, burying the rooftops and fences in a heavy white calm. His fingers ached as he pulled his suitcase along the brick path toward the small, ivy-draped house that had once been the whole world to him.
His mother answered the door with a gasp. She hadn't known he was coming.
"Andrew?" she said, her voice trembling with joy. "Is everything alright?"
He gave her a half-smile and nodded. "Just… needed a break."
His father appeared a moment later, still in pajamas, a newspaper in hand. The old man blinked at the sight of his son. "Well, now there's a surprise."
They embraced him warmly — arms that remembered his laughter, not this hollow quiet. Their eyes scanned his face and saw something was missing, though they didn't press. Instead, they welcomed him in with coffee and warmth, placing a thick blanket around his shoulders like it could fix whatever had cracked inside.
The house smelled like cinnamon and aged wood. Firelight flickered across the living room, and Andrew took his old seat by the fireplace, untouched since the days when he'd read poetry there during holidays.
He was home.
But he didn't feel it.
He stayed for a week.
He helped his mother cook, though he didn't eat much. He listened to his father talk about the old bookstore closing down, about the neighbor's cat gone missing again. He even played the old piano in the corner on the fourth night, fingers heavy but deliberate, pressing keys that once sang for him.
But something remained distant.
He didn't tell them about Emma. He didn't mention Jason. Not even the fight. He simply said school had been tiring, and they believed him, because they wanted to.
But one evening, as snow tapped the windows and the fire warmed their backs, his mother touched his arm and whispered, "You used to glow when you came home, Drew."
He looked at her — really looked. And he realized she wasn't accusing him. She was mourning with him.
"I lost something," he said softly.
"Can you find it again?"
He didn't answer.
---
Meanwhile, back at the academy, Jason returned.
The suspension ended. His steps were slower now, less brazen. He nodded to people in the hallway but avoided eye contact. The teachers welcomed him back with tight smiles. The students parted for him like water around a stone.
And Emma was waiting.
She met him in the courtyard behind the greenhouse, where the snow had melted enough to reveal small patches of brittle grass. She wore a scarf he hadn't seen before — mustard yellow, with a pattern of tiny leaves.
"I didn't think you'd come back," she said.
"I didn't think you'd wait."
She smiled faintly. "You fought for me."
He looked away. "Yeah. Maybe not in the best way."
They didn't speak for a while.
And then she touched his hand.
He stiffened — not from surprise, but from fear. Fear that it would vanish. Fear that he didn't deserve it.
"I missed you," she said.
He didn't say it back. He simply kissed her.
It wasn't rushed. Not hungry. Just quiet and searching — a question answered slowly between uncertain lips.
Afterward, they sat together on the stone bench, her head on his shoulder. She talked about how cold it had been, how the music room stayed empty, how even the wind seemed cruel without someone to share it with.
Jason listened.
He didn't know what they were now. Not lovers, not yet. Not strangers, either. Something in-between.
But that night, he walked her back to her dorm, and at the door, she pulled him close again — not out of impulse this time, but out of want.
---
Andrew left home on the seventh day.
His parents saw him off with warm hugs and flasks of coffee. His mother slipped a note into his coat pocket — he didn't read it until the train began to move.
"Your heart is still yours, Drew. No one can take it unless you give it away. Be careful who you trust with it. But don't lock it up, either."
The train windows blurred as he leaned his head back. Snow covered the fields beyond, the landscape both familiar and distant. The return felt heavier than the leaving.
By the time he reached the academy gates, the snow had settled again.
Students were trickling into the dining hall for dinner. Laughter, murmurs, the scrape of shoes — it all felt too loud.
He headed straight for his dorm.
On the staircase, he passed Kate.
She stopped. "You're back."
He nodded.
She searched his face. "You look better."
"I don't feel better."
She nodded slowly. "I wanted to check on you. But I figured you needed space."
"Thanks," he said, but didn't stop walking.
She didn't follow.
---
That evening, Andrew walked the familiar paths around the courtyard, past the benches and old sculptures, the trees dusted in white. He paused by the music room.
It was empty.
He stepped inside.
The piano still sat untouched. He laid his hand on it but didn't play. Instead, he walked to the window where Emma once watched the snowfall.
From here, he could see across the yard to the greenhouse corner.
They were there — Emma and Jason.
Their silhouettes backlit by the soft golden light.
Jason brushed snowflakes from her hair. She laughed. He kissed her forehead.
Andrew closed his eyes.
It didn't hurt the way it used to.
It hurt differently.
Quietly.
Not like a wound — more like something he'd left in the snow, watching it vanish while the world kept turning.
---
Later that night, he sat by the dorm window, coffee steaming beside him, notebook untouched. He looked at the stars above the rooftops and remembered what it felt like to be wanted.
Not desired — not pursued.
Just… wanted.
He knew now: Emma had never truly seen him.
Not the way he saw her.
But he had loved her anyway.
And maybe that, in the end, was the most human thing he'd ever done.
---
Somewhere down the hall, Jason was laughing.
Emma's voice followed.
Andrew turned to the window.
And let it snow.