Chapter 119

After class, Abigail slipped her notebook into her bag and stepped out into the warm afternoon air. The campus was alive with movement—students sprawled across the lawn with books, clusters laughing over coffee, the steady hum of voices filling the quad.

Instead of heading straight to the parking lot, she detoured toward the library courtyard. A shaded bench near a stone fountain caught her eye, and she set her guitar case down beside her as she pulled Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain from her bag.

She opened to the first chapter and began to read, her pen and journal balanced across her knee. The words were dense but lyrical, full of weight, each line painting images that pulled her deeper. Every few paragraphs she jotted thoughts: Faith as pressure. Family as tension. What makes us who we are?

She paused, staring at the page as she chewed the cap of her pen. Cross’s words echoed in her head: Not analysis. Reflection. She scribbled quickly in her journal:

It’s not about answers. It’s about connection. Emma’s pregnancy feels like this too—like being part of something bigger, something I didn’t choose but want with everything in me.

She underlined the thought twice before closing the notebook. The sun was warm, the fountain trickling behind her, and for the first time all day, she felt steady.

“Look at you,” a familiar voice teased. “Serious lit student already.”

Abigail glanced up, grinning when she saw Megan striding over in her practice gear, a basketball tucked under her arm and a sheen of sweat on her brow.

“Caught me in my natural habitat,” Abigail said, holding up the book. “Reading instead of running drills.”

Megan smirked, dropping onto the bench beside her. “Hey, don’t knock it. Literature’s cool and all, but you know a real education happens on the court.” She nudged Abigail’s shoulder with her own. “Speaking of—are you coming to our game Friday night?”

Abigail shrugged, smiling faintly. “Depends. Might have a mountain of homework.”

“Please,” Megan scoffed. “You’ll crush it. And besides, you’ve gotta see us in action at least once. Courtside—VIP treatment.”

Abigail laughed. “You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

“Nope,” Megan said proudly. “Ask Ashley.”

The mention of Megan’s girlfriend made them both grin. Abigail stood, sliding her book back into her bag. “Alright, I’ll try to make it. But don’t get mad if I bring my notebook to the game.”

Megan pointed her basketball at her with mock sternness. “Fine. But at least bring Emma too. She deserves a night out, and you two cheering together? That’s good luck.”

Abigail’s smile softened. “You might be right about that.”

They parted ways at the fountain, Megan heading back toward the gym while Abigail made her way to the parking lot. Her bag felt heavier with Baldwin’s book inside, but in a good way—like it carried more than just paper and ink.

The drive home was quieter than the morning rush, the golden haze of late afternoon stretching across the skyline. Abigail drummed her fingers against the steering wheel at red lights, Baldwin’s words still echoing in her head. By the time she pulled into the parking garage and slung her guitar case over her shoulder, she felt the fatigue of the day catching up to her.

The elevator ride up to the penthouse felt longer than usual. When the doors opened, she stepped into the familiar scent of vanilla candles and faint laundry detergent. The sound of the TV drifted softly from the living room.

“Baby?” Abigail called, setting her bag down near the door.

“In here!” Emma’s voice answered.

Abigail found her curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a bowl of grapes on the coffee table beside her. She looked up with a smile that immediately made Abigail’s shoulders relax.

“You look wiped,” Emma teased gently.

Abigail leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “I am wiped. Two classes back-to-back’ll do that.” She sat down beside her, tugging her shoes off before sinking into the cushions. “But… it was a good day.”

Emma tilted her head, curious. “Tell me.”

Abigail stretched her arms behind the couch and began recounting her day—the discussion on consonance and dissonance in Music Theory, the way Professor Cross pushed them to think about literature as questions instead of answers. Emma listened, her expression soft, occasionally popping a grape into her mouth as she nodded along.

“And then,” Abigail added, “I sat outside for a while to start Baldwin. Jotted a few things in my journal for Composition.” She smiled faintly. “I actually liked it more than I thought I would.”

Emma grinned. “Look at you—college student mode unlocked.”

Abigail chuckled, nudging her knee against Emma’s under the blanket. “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to my head.”

Emma’s eyes sparkled. “Too late.”

Abigail laughed, then leaned back against the couch. “Oh, and Megan found me outside. Invited me to their basketball game Friday night. Said I’d get ‘VIP treatment.'” She mimed quotation marks with her fingers.

Emma smirked. “That sounds like her. Are you going?”

“I think so,” Abigail said, then looked at her meaningfully. “She told me to bring you too. Said you deserve a night out.”

Emma’s smile softened, her hand drifting to her belly. “That’s sweet. I don’t know if I’ll feel up for it, but… maybe. It could be fun.”

Abigail slid closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and kissing her temple. “No pressure. But I think it’d be nice. You, me, cheering for Megan, pretending I know what’s going on.”

Emma laughed, leaning into her. “Deal. We’ll see how I feel Friday.”

For the rest of the evening, they stayed tucked together on the couch, the weight of the day slipping away as Abigail held Emma close.

Thursday morning came quickly. The alarm buzzed faintly, and Abigail rolled out of bed before it could wake Emma. The sky outside was pale and still waking itself, streaks of pink cutting across the horizon.

In the kitchen, Abigail brewed coffee, the scent filling the apartment. She made herself a quick breakfast burrito—eggs, cheese, and peppers—before slicing up some fruit and leaving it on a plate for Emma to have when she woke. Beside it, she placed a folded note: Good morning, love. Rest, eat, and call me if you need anything. XO — A.

Dressed in her jeans, a soft white tee, and her favorite denim jacket, she slung her bag and guitar case over her shoulder before slipping quietly out the door.

The drive to campus was smooth, her mind already on the journal project for English Composition. She parked, crossed the quad, and made her way into the humanities building where Professor Fletcher’s class was held.

Inside, the classroom buzzed with conversation as students settled in. Abigail chose her usual seat near the middle, pulling out her journal and pen. She flipped to yesterday’s entry about Emma and the baby, rereading it quickly before closing the notebook again, her chest tightening in a warm way.

The room quieted as Professor Fletcher walked in, a stack of books in her arms. “Good morning, everyone,” she said with a bright smile. “Today we’re going to talk about voice—what it means to write in a way that is uniquely yours. The words, the rhythm, even the silence you leave on the page. Finding your voice is the most important thing you’ll do as a writer.”

She set the books down and leaned lightly against the desk. “So, let’s practice. I want you to write a single page describing someone who matters to you—but without ever naming them. Focus on the details that make them who they are.”

Abigail lowered her eyes to the blank page in front of her, her pen already moving.

Her hand always finds mine, no matter where we are. Sometimes she laces our fingers together, sometimes she just rests her palm on top of mine, warm and steady like a promise. When she hugs me, I feel the stress leave my body in pieces I didn’t even know I was holding onto. It’s like she absorbs it without trying, like her arms were built to remind me I’m safe. She doesn’t even know how much she saves me in those small moments, but I do. And I carry them with me everywhere.

She stopped, the words filling more space on the page than she expected. Her chest ached in the best way, the kind that came with truth.

Professor Fletcher’s voice broke the silence a few minutes later. “Would anyone like to share?”

The room shifted—students glancing at one another, some ducking their heads, a few shuffling nervously in their seats.

Abigail looked down at her page, her thumb brushing over the sentences. Too personal, too raw. But powerful. She sat still, caught between holding it close like a secret and letting it breathe out loud in the room.

The silence stretched, heavy with hesitation. A few students fidgeted with their pens, eyes glued to their notebooks. Abigail’s thumb pressed harder against the edge of her page, her pulse quickening.

Before she could overthink it, her hand lifted. “I’ll share.”

A ripple of surprise moved through the room—heads turned, curious. Professor Fletcher’s gaze landed on her, warm and encouraging. “Go ahead, Abigail.”

Abigail cleared her throat softly and lowered her eyes to the page. Her voice came steady, though quiet at first, each word carving out the space between her and the rest of the room.

“Her hand always finds mine, no matter where we are. Sometimes she laces our fingers together, sometimes she just rests her palm on top of mine, warm and steady like a promise. When she hugs me, I feel the stress leave my body in pieces I didn’t even know I was holding onto. It’s like she absorbs it without trying, like her arms were built to remind me I’m safe. She doesn’t even know how much she saves me in those small moments, but I do. And I carry them with me everywhere.”

When she finished, the classroom was quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind—more like the pause after a song ends, when the silence feels fuller than sound.

Professor Fletcher’s eyes lingered on her, wide with something close to awe. She set her pen down slowly, her voice softer when she spoke. “That,” she said, “is what voice looks like. Honest. Unforced. You didn’t try to be clever—you just told the truth. And that truth carried all the weight it needed.”

A couple of students nodded, a few still staring at Abigail as if they weren’t expecting something so raw in the middle of a Thursday class. Abigail lowered her gaze, cheeks warming, but a quiet pride glowed in her chest.

Professor Fletcher smiled, still looking at her. “Thank you for being brave enough to share that.”

Abigail gave a small nod, closing her notebook gently. She knew Emma’s hand wasn’t in hers right now, but somehow, reading those words out loud made her feel like it was.

The room stayed quiet a beat longer, the weight of Abigail’s words still hanging there. Professor Fletcher let the silence breathe before gently clearing her throat. “That’s exactly the kind of writing I want from all of you. Not polished, not perfect—just true. Voice comes from the honesty you’re sometimes afraid to put down on the page.”

She glanced at the clock and smiled faintly. “Alright, that’s where we’ll stop for today. For homework, I want you to add two more entries to your journals before Tuesday. Don’t overthink it. Write like you’re talking to someone who matters.”

Chairs scraped and bags rustled as students packed up. A few shot Abigail quick glances, curious, maybe even impressed. Abigail slid her notebook into her bag, keeping her head down, though she couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips.

As she stood, Professor Fletcher’s eyes caught hers again. A quiet nod, full of respect, as if to say: That mattered. Abigail returned the nod, her chest warm, before slipping out into the hallway.

The hum of campus hit her immediately—students pouring in and out of classrooms, voices echoing down the corridor. She checked her phone quickly. A text from Emma lit up the screen: Just had the fruit you left out. Baby approved. 💕 Miss you.

Abigail grinned, tucking the phone back into her pocket as she pushed through the doors and into the sunshine. Her stomach growled, reminding her she’d only had that burrito hours ago. She headed toward the student café, her guitar case bouncing lightly against her shoulder.

Inside, the line buzzed with conversation. Abigail grabbed a sandwich and an iced tea, then found a quiet table near the window. She took a slow bite, letting herself relax, eyes drifting to the quad outside where students sprawled across the grass.

In less than an hour, she’d be back in the music building for Music History with Ms. Shields.