The campus was beginning to stir again after the storm — not the snow, but the chaos that left whispers echoing through every corridor. The courtyard was salted, the glass in the south hallway replaced, and most students returned to their schedules, eager to forget what had happened just weeks before.
Except Emma.
And Andrew.
And the few who carried the silence like a scar.
---
Kate sat beside Andrew on the edge of the old library fountain, watching snowmelt drip from the iron gargoyles above.
They didn't speak much, and that was alright. It had become a rhythm — an afternoon coffee, a slow walk through the side garden, long pauses where his eyes drifted somewhere she couldn't follow.
But he was there.
And that meant something.
She leaned back, brushing her scarf over her shoulder. "They finally fixed the bells."
Andrew looked up at the chapel tower where the bells stood still as statues.
"I hadn't noticed," he said.
Kate gave a soft chuckle. "Of course you hadn't."
He offered a half-smile, tired and thin. The kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Kate watched him carefully.
She knew — with every quiet glance, every absent response — that she wasn't really in the room with him. Not all of him.
Part of Andrew still stood in that snowy courtyard. Still wore that mask. Still heard Emma's voice saying: You stood with them.
But he came to her. Chose her presence.
Even if it was to fill a void.
She should have said something. Should have drawn a line.
But she didn't. Because some part of her, the small selfish part that had longed for his gaze since the beginning, was willing to accept even the shadow of his affection.
"Do you want to go over the poetry anthology tonight?" she asked.
Andrew nodded. "Yeah. That'd be good."
They rose and walked toward the study halls, shadows stretching long behind them.
---
Michael cornered him in the hallway two days later.
It wasn't loud. There were no fists, no shouting.
Just a shoulder pressed too firmly into his as he passed.
"You're lucky," Michael muttered, glancing around to make sure no one was near.
Andrew kept walking.
"You shouldn't have interfered. I don't care what you were trying to prove."
Andrew stopped.
"I'm not trying to prove anything," he said.
Michael smiled, lips twisted. "Good. Then stay out of my way."
A pause.
"I don't care what you did for them. That's not the part that matters."
"What does?" Andrew asked.
Michael leaned closer. "What you do next."
And then he walked away.
Andrew stood still, staring at the place where Michael's footsteps disappeared around the corner.
What he did next.
He wasn't sure he knew anymore.
---
Kate noticed the change.
Andrew studied harder. Woke up earlier. Skipped fewer classes. He stopped looking out the windows and started crafting essays faster than even the professors could finish asking the question.
But the more focused he became, the colder he grew.
Conversations were functional. Laughter was gone.
He showed up to poetry workshops with her, but never asked how she was.
She told herself it was temporary.
That he was healing.
But some days, she wondered if this version of him — disciplined, quiet, unreachable — was the version she'd be left with.
---
Emma watched them from across the lecture hall.
She saw Kate slide books to Andrew, saw the two of them in their little corner with literature anthologies and annotations between them.
She told herself it didn't matter.
That she had Jason now.
Jason, who walked her to class.
Jason, who brought her roses even when there was no occasion.
Jason, who made her laugh again.
But still… her eyes would drift.
To the back of the room. To Andrew.
To the bruise that still lingered on his cheek. To the way he no longer looked at her, not even by accident.
She wondered if he was okay.
But she never asked.
Because the guilt still clung to her — not for choosing Jason, but for what she'd ignored in Andrew all those months.
And maybe, deep down, she didn't want to hear the answer.
---
Jason noticed, of course.
He noticed the way Emma grew quiet when Andrew entered a room.
He noticed the way her fingers stilled on her cup when she saw the two of them — Andrew and Kate — walking together by the riverbank.
But he didn't say anything.
Because for the first time in a long time, he had something soft.
Emma's laugh. Her fingers in his hair. Her kisses that tasted like apologies he hadn't earned.
And if he asked her about Andrew, that softness might vanish.
So he drowned her in affection. Walked her through Christmas lights, made her hot chocolate after class, whispered poetry he half-remembered from books he never finished.
He played the part of the hero. Because for now, she let him.
And he wasn't ready to risk that.
---
As final exams drew closer, the school shifted again. Posters for literature salons lined the walls. The library grew louder. Students moved in flocks between poetry readings and essay reviews.
Andrew, however, moved alone.
Except for Kate.
Their routine remained unbroken. Study. Eat. Study again.
Sometimes they watched old European films in the empty media room. Sometimes they listened to classical music in silence.
One night, after three hours of annotating Yeats, Kate looked up and asked, "Do you think we'll still talk after exams?"
Andrew didn't answer immediately.
"I don't know," he said.
It wasn't cruel. Just honest.
She nodded, looking away.
But he added, "I'd like to."
And for now, that was enough.
---
Emma sat at her window, watching the lamplight flicker across the snow.
She should've been revising. Her notes on romanticism and symbolist poetry lay untouched on the desk.
But her thoughts wandered — to Jason's easy charm, his smile in the firelight.
To Andrew's silence.
She wondered who he was becoming.
And if she'd ever know that version of him.
She wrapped her arms around herself and whispered to no one:
"Are you okay, Andrew?"
But no one answered.