Chapter 115

The hallway spilled into the main quad, sunlight bright across the open space. Abigail slung her bag higher on her shoulder, her mind still lingering on Professor Fletcher’s assignment. A daily journal. It almost felt too easy—something she was already doing—but now it carried weight. A reason to stay consistent.

Her stomach rumbled, pulling her back to the present. She hadn’t eaten much of her breakfast burrito earlier, too focused on making Emma’s plate.

The campus café sat just across the quad, its glass windows buzzing with the sound of students and the smell of roasted coffee. Abigail slipped inside, the line moving quick, and ordered a breakfast sandwich with a side of fruit and an iced latte.

She carried her tray to a table by the window, setting her bag beside her. The sandwich was warm, gooey with melted cheese, and she took a big bite before pulling her phone free.

Her thumb hovered a moment, then she tapped Emma’s name.

The call rang twice before Emma’s sleepy voice answered, warm and familiar. “Hey, baby.”

Abigail smiled instantly. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

A soft laugh. “I was half-dozing, but it’s fine. How was class?”

“Good,” Abigail said, taking another bite of fruit. “Professor Fletcher had us write about a place that feels like home without using the word. I… kinda wrote about us. About the penthouse. About you.”

There was a pause on the line, then Emma’s voice came back, softer. “Now you’re trying to make me cry before breakfast.”

Abigail chuckled. “Not my fault you’re easy to write about.”

Emma hummed, the sound like a smile. “What are you doing now?”

“Eating,” Abigail admitted. “I barely touched my burrito this morning—I was too busy making sure you had waffles and fruit. So I’m making up for it here.”

“You’re the sweetest,” Emma said, her voice still thick with sleep. “You don’t have to take care of me like that all the time.”

Abigail’s tone softened, steady and certain. “Yes, I do. You and the baby come first. Always.”

On the other end, Emma was quiet a moment, and Abigail could almost picture her—curled up in bed, hand resting on her belly, eyes misty but smiling.

“Call me again after your next class?” Emma asked finally.

“Of course,” Abigail said. “I’ll keep you updated. You just rest for me, okay?”

“Okay,” Emma whispered. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” Abigail said, lingering on the line until Emma hung up first.

Abigail sat back, finishing her sandwich, her chest warm in a way even the coffee couldn’t match.

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Abigail tossed her empty coffee cup in the trash and slipped her guitar case over her shoulder before leaving the café. The afternoon sun was warmer now, and campus had that lazy in-between energy—students sprawled on the grass, some rushing with books in hand, others lingering with friends.

She pulled out her phone to double-check her schedule. 1:00 PM – Music History: 20th Century & Beyond — Professor Shields.

Her lips curved into a half-smile, more tired than amused. “Ms. Shields again,” she murmured to herself. Twice in one week. No avoiding it.

Instead of wandering, she made her way toward the music building. The guitar on her back felt grounding, a piece of home she could carry anywhere.

Inside, the hallways echoed with sound—a saxophone riffing in one room, a piano running scales in another. Abigail found an empty practice room and slipped inside. She shut the door until it was just cracked, dropped her bag, and eased her guitar out of its case.

The first strum always felt like exhaling. She tuned quickly, then let her fingers drift into a melody—small, searching notes that grew into something steady. For the next stretch of minutes, she let herself unravel into the music. Bits of unfinished songs slipped out, riffs she hadn’t perfected, melodies still waiting for lyrics.

And then, almost without thinking, she shifted into Emma’s song. The one Emma always asked for late at night, soft and slow, the one that carried too much feeling to ever be casual. Abigail’s voice joined the chords—low, raw, unpolished but honest.

Her eyes stayed closed as she sang, lost in it—until the hairs on her arms prickled. She opened her eyes mid-phrase and caught the shape in the doorway.

Ms. Shields.

Her fingers faltered, the last note hanging awkwardly before she stopped altogether. “Sorry,” Abigail said quickly, adjusting the guitar against her lap. “I didn’t notice you came in.”

Shields shook her head, her voice low, almost softer than usual. “No need to apologize. You sound… beautiful.” She hesitated a beat, eyes steady on Abigail. “What song was that?”

Abigail swallowed, her cheeks warming, but she forced herself to answer honestly. “A song I wrote. For my girlfriend.”

For a split second, Shields froze, the word girlfriend landing like a stone in still water. Then she blinked, her expression smoothing as she managed a small smile. “It’s beautiful. You have real talent, Abigail.”

Abigail shifted in her seat, the guitar heavy against her legs. “Thanks.”

Shields adjusted the books in her arms and moved further into the classroom, setting them down neatly on her desk. “You don’t have to stop on my account,” she said, her tone carefully measured now, more professional. She began arranging her notes and opening her laptop, her presence filling the quiet room.

Abigail’s fingers brushed the strings again, softer this time, uncertain if she should keep playing with her professor in the room.

Ms. Shields kept her back mostly turned, setting out papers and adjusting her laptop, her voice even as she said, “You don’t have to stop. Play as long as you’d like.”

Abigail nodded faintly, but her phone buzzed on the desk beside her guitar case. She glanced down and saw Emma’s name light up the screen. Her chest eased immediately, and she answered, her voice clear and warm.

“Hey, baby.”

Emma’s voice came soft on the other end, carrying warmth like a blanket. “Hi, love. I was just checking in. I missed you.”

Abigail smiled, her shoulders loosening as she leaned back in her chair. “I miss you too. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” Emma said quietly. “I just… wanted to hear your voice before your next class. And to say I love you.”

A smile spread fully across Abigail’s face. “I love you too. More than anything.”

At the front of the room, Ms. Shields stilled for the faintest second before resuming her motions—arranging papers, adjusting her notes, opening her laptop. She kept her head down, but her ears caught every word, each one reminding her of the wall Abigail had just put up with a single sentence: my girlfriend.

On the line, Emma gave a soft laugh. “Good. Now go be brilliant in class. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

“Always,” Abigail said, still smiling as she ended the call. She slipped her phone back into her bag, the glow of Emma’s words anchoring her in a way nothing else could.

She didn’t notice the way Ms. Shields’ eyes flicked briefly in her direction before focusing back on the computer screen, her expression carefully neutral.

The first few students began to trickle in, filling the quiet room with the scrape of chairs and hushed chatter. Abigail straightened in her seat, resting her hand on the neck of her guitar, ready to shift back into the role of student.