- PART 2
“WITHDRAW IT, MAREN. NOW.” Kellan Rook shoved my laptop across the dining table as if he could erase my Vesper application. Corinne sat beside him, her tea untouched. “It’s already submitted,” I said. “And I’m not withdrawing it.” “You’re throwing away thirteen years over one bad night.” I almost laughed. “One night? Remember when I twisted my ankle and you left me at the gym because Corinne felt dizzy? Or when you missed my state physics competition because she had a fever?” “She needed me.” “I needed you too.” He glanced at Corinne, then back at me. “You’ve always been the strong one.” I pointed at three pages of research he’d prepared for her. “Tell me what I want to study.” “Computer science.” “What kind?” He hesitated. “Software engineering?” “Artificial intelligence. I’ve told you for two years.” His silence hurt more than his anger. “You know Corinne’s medical appointments, favorite classes, and which cities might affect her asthma. You don’t even know why I applied to Vesper.” Kellan gripped the back of his chair. “I thought you would stay.” “I know,” I said. “That was the problem.”
Corinne rose slowly. “If this is because of me, I can look at schools near Boston. Maybe we can still—” “You can’t,” Kellan interrupted. “Cold winters aggravate your breathing. Besides, you’d lose the English program you picked.” He listed her concerns without hesitation. Corinne’s expression changed. She looked between us. “Kellan,” she asked quietly, “why do you know everything about me and nothing about Maren?” He stared at her. “Because you need looking after.” “And who decided that?” she replied. He ignored the question and caught my wrist as I headed upstairs. “Stop making a scene. We’ve always taken care of Corinne together.” I pulled free. “I did it because I thought you loved me.” The room fell silent. Corinne covered her mouth. Kellan simply stared. “Everyone called me your girlfriend,” I continued. “You never corrected them. You told our friends I wasn’t going anywhere. I believed that meant something.” “You mean everything to me,” he said. “Then answer one question. Are you in love with me?” His eyes flickered toward Corinne for the briefest instant. I saw it. So did she. “I’ve never thought about it that way,” he finally whispered. “Then you should have,” I said, and closed my bedroom door.
At ten that night, Corinne knocked. Her eyes were swollen. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I honestly thought you two would get married.” She described how she’d pushed us together: arranging birthday surprises and slipping me treats Kellan had bought for her. “But whenever I felt sick or scared, I called him. I told myself it was harmless because we’d known each other forever.” She wiped her eyes. “I liked being taken care of. I never asked what it cost you.” I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t angry. “When I had that allergic reaction at the beach, I called his name. He was busy bandaging your toe.” Corinne went completely still. “I thought the restaurant manager found you before you got sick.” “I was already struggling to breathe.” Tears rolled down her face. “Maren, I’m sorry.” I handed her another tissue. “I love you. But I can’t keep disappearing so everyone else stays comfortable.” I asked whether she loved Kellan. She looked genuinely frightened by the question. “Maybe I just love never having to make decisions alone.” I reached for her hand. “Then figure out who you are without him. That’s what I’m trying to do.” Before leaving, she hugged me tightly. It was our first honest conversation in years.
The next morning, Kellan was waiting beside my car, exhausted and unshaven. “I made some calls,” he announced. “Vesper might let you withdraw before decisions come out. If it doesn’t work, you could take a gap year. I’ll wait and apply somewhere with you next fall.” I stared at him. “You want me to give up a research fellowship opportunity so you don’t have to change your plans?” “I’m offering to sacrifice a year too.” “I didn’t ask you to.” He looked wounded. “I stayed up all night thinking about how I neglected you. I can do better, Maren. Just give me a chance.” For a moment, I heard everything I’d once wanted. Then I asked, “Do you love me?” His mouth opened. Nothing came out. “We’ve been together forever,” he said finally. “That’s not an answer.” “Feelings take time.” “You had thirteen years.” I walked around him, but he called after me, “You can’t erase our entire history!” I stopped. “I’m not erasing it. I’m refusing to let it write the rest of my life.” He stayed where he was. In December, an email arrived from Vesper: I had been admitted to its artificial intelligence research track, with generous financial aid and an invitation to join a first-year lab cohort. Dad cried. Mom hugged me hard. For the first time, the future felt like something I owned.
Our families had planned one combined celebration for all three college decisions, but Dad canceled it when he learned Kellan had tried to make me withdraw. “My daughter nearly rejected the best opportunity of her life because she thought she had to follow your son,” he told Kellan’s parents. “That isn’t a misunderstanding.” At my own celebration, an admissions counselor sent a short congratulatory video describing my research program. Relatives who’d teased me about becoming Mrs. Rook asked about robotics and scholarships. Across the room, Kellan stood holding a wrapped box. He waited until the guests left before giving it to me. Inside was a delicate miniature of Lakeford University’s main building, the decoration we’d planned for our shared apartment. “I made it for you,” he whispered. “We can keep it as a memory.” “A memory of what? The future you chose for me?” His eyes reddened. “You never used to talk to me like this.” “I never used to stand up for myself.” His fingers loosened. The box struck the stone patio, and the miniature shattered beneath the glass. Kellan stared at the pieces. Then Corinne stepped out behind him. “Kellan,” she said, voice trembling but firm, “we need to talk. And this time, you’re going to listen to what I want.” - PART 3
“YOU DON’T LOVE ME, KELLAN. YOU LOVE HAVING SOMEONE WHO NEEDS YOU.” Corinne’s words stopped Kellan Rook as he bent to collect the shattered miniature from my graduation party. He looked up, stunned. “What are you talking about? I’ve spent my whole life taking care of you!” My sister folded her arms. “Exactly. You chose my classes, worried about my health, and made every decision before I could make it myself. Did you ever ask what I actually wanted?” Kellan frowned. “I wanted what was best for you.” “No. You wanted me to need you.” For once, Corinne didn’t cry or retreat behind her fragile health. She admitted she’d accepted Lakeford’s English program because everyone said it was safe. Her real passion was theatrical production design. Hidden beneath her bed were sketchbooks filled with elaborate costumes, lighting plans, and stage sets. Our parents had discouraged the arts because they feared the demanding work would worsen her health. Kellan had agreed without ever seeing her drawings. “I’m going to defer enrollment and build a portfolio,” she announced. “Then I’ll apply to theater design programs.” Kellan stared at her. “You can’t. The workload will destroy you!” Corinne looked him directly in the eyes. “Whether I can handle it is my decision.” His face crumpled. “So you’re leaving me too?” She shook her head. “Nobody is abandoning you, Kellan. We’re just refusing to let you control our lives anymore.” I watched from the doorway as he finally understood that two girls he’d always considered his responsibility were no longer asking his permission to live.
By August, Corinne had enrolled in an intensive portfolio workshop and found a mentor at a local theater. For the first time, she was excited about something that had nothing to do with Kellan. Our parents worried, but watching her confidently discuss set construction and lighting design gradually changed their minds. The afternoon before I left for Massachusetts, Kellan approached me outside our house. His eyes were exhausted, and his voice sounded painfully unfamiliar. “Maren, was everything we had really meaningless?” I shook my head. “No. We were children together. Those memories matter. But they don’t entitle you to my future.” He swallowed. “I thought you’d always be there.” “That’s why you never asked whether I was happy.” His fingers tightened around the handle of my suitcase. “Maybe we could start over someday.” I gently removed his hand. “You need to figure out who you are when nobody depends on you.” At the airport, Mom cried while Dad reminded me to call every Sunday. Corinne hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe. “Go build something extraordinary,” she whispered. “And promise me you’ll never make yourself smaller for a boy again.” I promised. Just before boarding, a long message from Kellan appeared. He wrote about our childhood birthdays, neighborhood bike rides, and summers spent planning a future together. He admitted he couldn’t tell whether he’d loved Corinne or simply loved being needed. His final question was, “Is there really nothing I can do to make you come back?” I read it once, turned off my phone, and boarded the plane without answering.
Vesper Institute of Technology changed my life in ways I couldn’t have imagined. During orientation, I met students who’d built robots in their garages, developed medical software, and competed in international science competitions. For the first time, nobody introduced me as Kellan Rook’s future girlfriend. I was simply Maren Duvall, an aspiring artificial intelligence researcher who loved solving impossible problems. My professors challenged me, my classmates inspired me, and my research advisor invited me to assist with an intelligent-systems project during freshman year. I struggled sometimes. I failed experiments, cried over impossible deadlines, and occasionally missed home so desperately that I considered booking the next flight to Ohio. But I never regretted choosing Vesper. Sophomore year, our research team won a national innovation competition. Junior year, I became a lead student author on a published research paper. By senior year, I had earned an international research placement and a funded graduate-school offer. Meanwhile, Corinne spent a year strengthening her portfolio before gaining admission to a respected theatrical design program. She learned to manage her health without surrendering her independence. Her first professional stage production opened to enthusiastic reviews, and she called me afterward, laughing and crying simultaneously. “Maren, they actually applauded something I created!” I cried with her. Our lives weren’t perfect, but they finally belonged to us. Whenever I thought about the girl who almost rejected her dream university to follow a boy, I wished I could reach backward through time and tell her that heartbreak wasn’t the end of her story. It was the beginning.
Four years after that unforgettable application deadline, Kellan contacted me. He was visiting Massachusetts for a job interview and asked whether we could meet. I considered refusing, then agreed to a short conversation at a café near Vesper. He looked older, more thoughtful, and less certain of himself. We talked about work, family, and Corinne’s flourishing design career. He mentioned that he’d started counseling after realizing how much his identity depended on being indispensable to other people. I was glad he’d found help. As I prepared to leave, he asked the question I’d expected. “Maren, if I’d submitted our applications together that night, would you have stayed with me?” I considered it. “Probably.” His eyes brightened, but I continued. “And that would’ve been the worst mistake of my life.” The hope vanished from his face. “Was I really that terrible?” “You weren’t a monster, Kellan. But you only noticed me when I stopped agreeing with you. If we’d gone to Lakeford together, Corinne would’ve needed something eventually. You would’ve rushed to help her, and I would’ve been expected to understand. Again and again.” He stared down at his coffee. “I could’ve changed.” “Maybe. But I couldn’t build my future around the possibility that someday you might.” After a long silence, he reached into his bag and produced a familiar box. Inside was the miniature Lakeford building he’d dropped years earlier. Every broken piece had been repaired. “I kept it,” he whispered. “I thought someday I might give it to you properly.” I studied the delicate model without touching it. Then I gently pushed the box back toward him. “Keep it, Kellan. That’s the future you chose. It isn’t mine.”
When I walked out of the café, sunlight poured across the campus sidewalks. My phone buzzed with a photograph from Corinne: she was standing beneath the enormous set she’d designed for a regional theater production, grinning proudly beside her crew. Beneath it, she’d written, “Remember when everyone said I wasn’t strong enough for this?” I replied, “You were always strong. They just never let you prove it.” Then another notification appeared. My graduate research advisor had approved my proposal for a new project developing assistive technology for people with disabilities. I smiled so widely that a passing student smiled back. Four years earlier, I’d sat beside a boy who refused to submit his college application until my sister answered his messages. I’d mistaken thirteen years of familiarity for love and his expectation that I’d always wait for proof that I mattered. I no longer hated him. I even hoped he’d eventually find a relationship where love didn’t mean controlling someone or making them dependent. But his happiness was no longer my responsibility. Neither was explaining why I’d left. I hurried toward the laboratory, where my research team was waiting to celebrate our next milestone. For the first time, I understood that the most important decision of my life hadn’t been choosing one university over another. It had been choosing to believe my dreams deserved the same devotion I’d once given someone else. Kellan thought I’d thrown away thirteen years when I refused to wait those final minutes. He was wrong. I hadn’t thrown away my past. I’d simply stopped allowing it to steal my future. And when the laboratory doors opened, I stepped inside without looking back.
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