A/N: Well, look here! All I'll tell you is this -- you can never quite count me out, even if it's been an inordinately long time since a last update. Just ask my friend Zeeba. ha.

So if there's anyone still reading this story, thanks. :) I've been newly inspired to work on it thanks to the Wolverine trailer, which looked much better than anticipated and got me all excited for more X-Men action. This chapter is a little transitional, but the next one should be more exciting.

That's all. :)

December 25

Warren

Christmas carols are obnoxious.

"Silver bells… silver bells… it's Christmastime in the city…" I closed my eyes, listening to my mother's Celebrate the Season album for what had to be the tenth time that day. She'd had it on a loop while helping Rita, the cook, prepare Christmas dinner, and I'd had enough. Glancing towards the kitchen, I thought about getting up, but decided against it.

"Mom!" I shouted. "Can I change the CD?"

She wandered into the den a few moments later, giving me a look of disapproval. "Warren," she said reproachfully. "Don't yell. It's uncouth."

"Sorry," I mumbled. Katherine Worthington was always calm, articulate, and relatively soft-spoken, but she knew exactly what to say to put me in my place.

"And yes," she finished. "Yes, you can change it." She raised an eyebrow, smiled, and retreated back into the kitchen.

I wandered over to the stereo, and sat down. My parents had an extensive collection of Christmas albums, everything from An Elvis Christmas to Barbra Streisand's Christmas Memories to Time-Life Music: A Treasury of Christmas Classics. I flipped through dozens of CDs before giving up. Truthfully, I wasn't in the mood for Christmas music, period. I'd grown tired of soaring ballads about God and angels and silver bells. Sometimes, they just hit a little too close to home.

With a shrug, I flipped the mode on the stereo, searching through the XM Satellite Channels. I stopped when I reached 'Sounds of the Seasons' and stood up. The room was suddenly filled with the croonings of a dulcet children's choir.

"Hark! The herald angels sing… glory to the newborn king!"

I groaned, pressing my thumbs against my temples, feeling the dull pounding underneath. Of course.

xxxxx

As I'd done about a thousand times since that fateful Thursday, I wondered what exactly Sera Slone was doing at that very moment. Was she having dinner with her family, as well, basking in the yuletide spirit? Or maybe she was out with her friends, the twins she'd mentioned a time or two during our interactions. Or perhaps – and this was a huge stretch, although I had to admit it was a possibility – she was with Jonathan, having dinner at some trendy restaurant he'd chosen to impress her.

But regardless of what she was doing, or where, or whom with, I wondered if she was as tormented with her newfound knowledge as I was.

Once the anger had ceded, and the shock worn off, I was left with a storm of feelings much harder to deal with – loss. Emptiness. Vulnerability. For the second time in my life, I thought I'd had everything under control, only to somehow watch it all crumble right beneath my eyes. I'd become a mutant at 16, stripped of any semblance of a normal life, but I'd dealt with it. I'd adjusted; evolved, you could even aptly say, to a lifestyle of solitude and secrecy. And now I was faced with another evolution – learning to live with the knowledge that someone else knew my secret. I no longer had complete power – as of Wednesday, December 6th, Sera owned a hefty share of stock in my life.

Has she told anyone? I leaned my head against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. I didn't really have any proof either way, but a gut feeling told me she hadn't. If she had, the chain of rumor would have surely hit the tabloids by now. Besides, after witnessing her begging fit and knowing a little about her deeply loyal nature, I finally decided, deep down, that she wouldn't tell – at least not intentionally. I wasn't worried about any malicious blackmail on her part… however, I was worried about a casual slip of the tongue. Perhaps when out drinking with her friends, when the topic of the Angel came up, her common sense could be altered just enough for her to confess something truly outrageous to everyone within earshot: "The Angel? Oh, you'll never believe this! I know who he is! That's Warren Worthington the third… I saw him myself, flying back into his apartment…"

I sighed heavily. It didn't do any good to think like this, because frankly, there was nothing I could do to change things. Short of Sera coming down with a sudden case of amnesia or – God forbid – dying, I'd have to accept that I'd never truly be safe from discovery again.

I needed to think about something else for awhile. Anything. I'd rather listen to Dad give me a detailed lecture about stock options than brood over this any further… I abruptly stood and began marching toward the kitchen. Mom was still creating her dessert masterpiece, and I knew that if I made an appearance, she'd put me to work. And for once, that was a good thing.

"Mom?" I walked in. My mother's kitchen was a chef's dream – spacious, immaculate, and stocked with a virtual grocery store of ingredients and William-Sonoma cookware. Interesting, considering she rarely touched any of it. She and Rita stood in the middle of the room at the cutting-board island, rolling out flat sheets of dough for pie crusts. She looked up when I entered, brushing a strand of graying hair back behind her ear. There was a light dusting of flour across her cheek, and with a wistful smile, I thought the look suited her well.

"Yes, Warren?" she replied.

"Just seeing how things were going," I said lamely, watching her deftly flatten the dough on the cutting board.

"Well, fine, for the most part… I'm just making the crust for the first pie." She let up off the rolling pin, inspecting the thin sheet of dough she'd splayed across the countertop. She frowned, noticing a small crack forming on the outskirts, and picked up another piece of dough to patch the area.

"Oh," I said. When neither she nor Rita said anything else – they were involved in their work – I hesitantly spoke up. "Can I help?"

Mom arched an eyebrow, amused or perhaps just perturbed at my sudden interest in the culinary arts. "Help?" she repeated. "Oh, really?"

I shifted uncomfortably under her penetrating gaze. As I'd said before, my mother was no fool, and while my father didn't notice the deepening aura of despair surrounding me as of late, she had certainly picked up on it. And this? Willingly offering assistance for something I'd never bothered to help with before? She was, no doubt, completely befuddled. I had worse mood swings than a teenage girl.

"Well, yeah," I said. "I'm a pretty good cook, you know… and I'm bored." Both true.

She studied me silently for a second, one side of her mouth curling up in a wry grin. "Go wash your hands," she finally said. "And I'll put you to work."

I smiled back as I strode to the sink, grateful to have a distraction for the next few hours.

*****

"I must say, Warren, I've been very impressed with you this semester," my father announced. We were sitting at the large oak table in my parents' dining room, dimly light by a large candelabra hanging from the ceiling. I sat quietly in my chair, digesting both the enormous slice of cherry pie I'd just wolfed down and the sudden declaration of pride from my father.

"Impressed?" I repeated, bewildered. I'd been described as a lot of things in the past few months by a lot of different people, but I couldn't recall "impressive" being among the adjectives. Quite far from it, actually.

"College is hard work," he continued. "And it's easy to get distracted by less important things." His eyes shifted over to me, and his face settled into a warm smile, somewhat softening the rough edges of his words. "I'll be honest, I was worried about you, Warren."

"Worried?" I asked. "What, you thought I'd flunk out?" I expected him to laugh it off, but the slight purse of his lips told me that he had thought that.

"It happens to plenty of kids," he said in his calm, levelheaded way. "Tom Christian's son – you remember him, Troy? -- he lost his scholarship at Princeton the first year." Dad shook his head. "Shame. He's a smart kid, but he made a lot of bad choices. But you, Warren – you've kept your eyes on the goal." He smiled again. "4.0? I can't ask for any better than that. I know it took a lot of work and focus, and I'm proud of you for sticking with it."

"Thanks," I mumbled, staring down at my empty plate. What dad saw as "focus" and "hard work" could really just be chalked up to my complete lack of social life. Other than late-night jaunts in the New York skies, I pretty much stayed huddled in my apartment. What else was I supposed to do except study and cook my fancy vegetarian meals?

Dad raised his glass of wine in a toast. "To Warren," he said solemnly, "and his continued success."

My mother raised her glass, but her face was decidedly less thrilled. "Success in all areas," she added. "Because there's more to life than just academics."

My face burned at the underlying message to her words. "Thanks," I muttered, picking up my glass to clink against theirs. I took a long drink of wine, licking my lips once I'd downed the glass.

"So what classes do you have next semester?" Dad asked, oblivious to my mother's attempt to shift the focus towards my personal life.

"Statistics... Business Writing... another Ethics class..." I ran my finger over the wet rim of the wine glass, listening for the faint hum. "And astronomy."

"Astronomy?" Dad repeated. "Is that part of your degree requirement?"

"It's an elective. You have to have two science classes, and if you're in the business college, they don't care which two you choose," I said. "So I went with astronomy. Thought it sounded interesting."

Truthfully, I'd thought it sounded like a class that could be useful. Since constellations helped our ancestors when they were far away from any landmarks, I figured the same logic could be applied to my flying. In the city limits, I just used buildings, bridges, and signs to help me determine my location. But there were times when I flew beyond the edge of the city, with only trees underneath me for miles and miles. Being able to understand the fixed points in the sky could help me get my bearings.

"That does sound interesting," Mom said. "I think the stars are fascinating."

"So just four classes?" Dad asked, frowning slightly. Shit, I knew he'd notice that. "How many hours is that?"

"Twelve," I answered.

"That's the minimum for a full-time student, isn't it?"

I nodded, not liking the direction of the conversation.

"But you took 17 hours this past semester," he said. "Why so few this time? If you have to drop one, that'll knock you down to a part-time student, and you'll lose your scholarship."

Well, Dad, I decided that saving the world and taking 17 hours a semester at the same time was a little stressful, so I decided to make an easier schedule to cut myself some slack. "It was pretty rough this semester," I said. "I thought I'd take it a little easier next time."

"Rough?" he repeated. "You got straight A's, Warren. Must not have been too rough." He chuckled. "I think you should add another class. You can do that, right? Can you go see your counselor when school starts back up?"

I stared at my empty wine glass, refusing to meet his eyes. You don't get it. You have no idea who I am. That was a common complaint about teenagers – the declaration that parents just didn't understand – but in my case, it was truer than most. If he knew the sort of pressure I was under, he wouldn't have blinked twice about me only taking 12 hours. But cutting back for what seemed like no good reason, other than it was a lot of work? He was probably worried about me becoming complacent, lazy. Two characteristics that Worthingtons were not.

"I don't want to add a class," I mumbled.

My father cleared his throat, tossing a glance to my mother. "I know 15 hours is the average," he said. "It takes 120 credit hours to graduate, and if you're doing a four-year degree, that's 15 hours a semester. If you only do 12, you'll be negating those extra hours you did last semester. In fact, you'll be an hour behind."

"I know," I said, seething. "It'll be fine, Dad."

Would it? I wasn't even sure what I was talking about anymore. My life was a royal mess, and I wasn't sure it would ever be 'fine' again. It was so frustrating to be surrounded by people who didn't understand my motivations; who questioned my decisions about my classes, living situation, social life, diet...

Well, there is one person who would probably understand now...

I grabbed the bottle of Chateau d'Yquem and dumped a hefty serving into my wine glass. I took a long draught, letting the bittersweet liquid burn my tongue and throat. Sera? No, Sera wouldn't understand, much as she'd tried to convince me otherwise. No one understood.

Maybe not, but she knows why you do the things you do... She wouldn't question why you were only taking 12 hours. Knowing her, she would have suggested it. She's probably figured out the reason for your vegetarianism, if she really thought about it. She knows why you live alone, why you have no friends, why you have no girlfriend...

"Well, I just don't want you to get too far behind," Dad said, reiterating his earlier point. "Classes will get harder as you get into your degree, and if you can knock out as many of the General Ed hours as you can now, the better off you'll be later."

I heard Dad, but I wasn't listening. Instead, I silently continued the raging inner debate over Sera; the pros and cons of her knowing my secret. Yeah, you could have had a real friend there, Warren, someone who offered to be there for you whenever you needed her, but you pushed her away. Probably never see her again. Good thing you're so used to being alone.

She'd broken into my apartment. How else was I supposed to react? She'd crossed a huge barrier and broken my trust. As I'd told her, I could have had her arrested. Hell, I should have, just to prove a point.

She made a mistake. And apologized for it, sincerely, a hundred times. She could have helped you, if only you'd calmed down and talked things through like she wanted.

Helped me? Helped with what? Zipping me into my shirts? Preening my feathers? Watching the news for updates on dire situations I should be fixing?

"Warren?" Mom asked, leaning forward. She rested her hand on my arm, a gentle touch that brought me back into the present momentarily. "Honey, are you all right?"

"There's other stuff I want to do," I blurted out. A vague memory popped into my mind: Sera laughing as she described an embarrassing wipe-out in her Ultimate Frisbee class. "I... I want to – I was thinking about playing a sport. For fun, not for the school. Joining an intramural club. Ultimate Frisbee, maybe." I swallowed, feeling terrible about the lie when I saw the way my mother's face lit up. "I just figured, I didn't do much outside of schoolwork last semester, but this time I wanted to... get more involved."

"Well, that's wonderful," Mom said warmly. "You'll have a lot of fun and do a lot of networking. Won't he?" She threw a meaningful glance at my father, almost daring him to argue. I could practically hear her silent words: He's socializing, like a normal teenage boy! This is progress, don't interfere!

Dad, for his part, picked up on the hint. "I played intramural sports in college," he agreed jovially, veering the topic into safer, happier territory. "Basketball, softball, flag football... made a lot of good connections, and good friends that way. Good call."

I just nodded, wondering how long it would take before they would find out I hadn't followed through on that vague promise to get more involved on campus. I'd deal with that later. For the time being, I'd gotten them off my back, and that was enough. Ultimate Frisbee, what a joke. And who did I have to thank for that idea?

I closed my eyes, picturing her pretty, plain face. Remembering the way her dark eyes had looked when she was crumpled on my kitchen floor, wide and white and frozen. And in contrast, the way they'd looked when I'd walked up to her before our presentation, full of hope and apology. And then, her expression when I'd told her off on the quad – quivering lips, teary eyes. Shameful. Crushed.

And then I remembered the way I'd felt, seeing her lying on the floor, terrified of my looming wings after she'd spent months claiming to be perfectly fine with mutation. Fear. Anger. Desperation.

I took another drink of wine.

xxxxx

I lounged on the balcony of my parents house several hours later, staring off into the dark horizon. They'd both gone to bed right after we'd exchanged gifts, but it was too dicey to attempt a jaunt into the nighttime skies. My parents were heavy sleepers, true, but the people they paid to run their household weren't. Which was good – the live-in help kept an eye out for any unusual activity and never hesitated to call the police when they had suspicions. They'd prevented Mom and Dad's house from being burglarized nearly a dozen times. However, it wasn't so good for me. Someone would probably see me leave the balcony, and even if I tried to take off from another point – my bedroom window, for example, which was on the back side of the house – they could see me either leaving or returning to the property. Too risky.

The night was cold, silent, still. The wind had remained constant but light all evening, gently rustling the leaves of the large oak trees planted around the house. I sat in the largest of the cushioned deck chairs, sipping on a highball filled with my father's most expensive scotch and soda. It tasted absolutely terrible, but I didn't care, as it made me feel warm. And numb.

Merry Christmas, indeed... Sighing, I reached into my coat pocket, pulling out the gift my parents had bestowed upon me earlier in the evening – a set of solid 18K gold cuff links with a W-shaped diamond inlay. It seemed a boring but expensive gift, had one not known the story behind it. This particular pair had belonged to my grandfather, Warren the first. I'd been told they were the first pair he'd ever purchased, originally crafted in 1945 by the finest goldsmith in New York. The Great Depression had come and gone, the war had ended, and his brainchild, Worthington Industries, had just gotten off the ground. As proof that he had finally made something of himself, he'd gone out and purchased the elegant pair, customizing the design himself. The history behind the tiny gift was mind-boggling, and I could understand why my parents had waited until I was of age to hand it over. The sentimental value alone rendered the cuff links priceless, and even I knew my younger self wouldn't have been able to grasp the enormity of having them passed into my ownership.

I fingered the delicate jewelry, turning them over so that the diamonds sparkled in the moonlight. They were yet another symbol of Worthington opulence, but I liked them. I liked knowing that my grandfather, a man I'd not had the chance to meet, had once held them in his hands, much like I was doing. He'd faced enormous obstacles in his life, but he'd made it through. And so would I, somehow.

I heard a snap, like the crackling of wood on a campfire, and I immediately shot to attention, jumping to my feet. A tree branch breaking, perhaps? An animal of some sort stepping on a twig below? Or something else? I blinked and shook my head, trying to clear my head from the haze of alcohol. Securing the cuff links back in my pocket, I strode to the front of the deck, gripping the banister as I scanned the grounds with sharp eyes.

Nothing. Except... was it? I got a familiar, twitchy feeling, like I was being examined under a microscope. But it felt different this time, somehow. I wasn't frightened. Just suspicious. And maybe just a little bit drunk, which would explain the paranoia.

I stayed at the rail, refusing to let it go so easily. "Who's there?" I called out sharply, the wind carrying my voice across the lawn. "Who's there? I know you're here."

Nothing. You're being ridiculous, my mind admonished. You're overreacting because of Sera. There's no one out there.

I stood ramrod-straight at the railing for nearly an hour, watching and waiting for another sign, but none ever came. The paranoia (along with the alcohol buzz) passed, and I sighed, walking back to retrieve the highball. I went inside, taking light steps through the silent house.

xxxxx

January 16

By the time school started again, the discovery incident seemed long, long ago, as if it had happened in another lifetime. Sera was never far from my thoughts, but true to her word, it appeared she'd told no one. Though a cloud of wariness continued to follow me wherever I went, I'd relaxed enough to resume what little of a life I'd had. Class, as dull and redundant and it could be, would actually be a welcome distraction.

The first day back on campus is always a hellish one. I'd had trouble procuring a parking spot – though I'd paid the hefty fee for one of the exclusive, elusive slots in the parking garage next to the student center, the first week was usually a battle of rights. New students, who generally didn't know any better or weren't aware of the strict no-tolerance policy by the campus meter maids, attempted to park in areas they weren't allowed. It was a pain in the ass for me, and seeing the stacks of pricey parking tickets stacking up on their windshields as I walked through the garage was only somewhat satisfying. It usually only took one or two notices before the newbies got the hint.

At any rate, the battle for parking was the reason I was late for my first class back on the first day – astronomy, the class that had perturbed my father. I hustled across the quad, checking my watch and swearing loudly and creatively at the lumbering Ford Taurus that had taken my usual spot. I knew what would happen when I arrived to class – I'd come in late, everyone would stare, and then the whispers would begin. I was rarely tardy for class or important appointments, but anytime it did happen, people gossiped: Warren Worthington III deemed himself too important to show up on time.

I took the steps of the Morgan Science building two at a time, scrambling to the fourth floor. I walked in room 412, critically eyeing the small number of chairs. Not good. Small classrooms meant small classes, which meant more participation and all that 'getting to know your fellow students' shit. I much preferred auditorium lectures, which lent themselves to anonymity. Simply show up, listen, take notes, and leave. Perfect for guys who wanted – or needed – to be invisible.

I was one of the first to arrive, so I chose a chair near the back, determined to be as inactive as possible. I kept my eyes glued to my desktop as other students streamed in, and I barely even noticed when the professor strode to the front of the room and closed the door. Slouching in my chair, I mindlessly doodled on a torn sheet of notebook paper as he spoke, droning through the syllabus and expected coursework for the semester.

And then, the roll call.

"David Higgins?" the professor called out.

I pressed my pen hard against the paper, coloring in one of the random little triangles I'd sketched across the page. "Suzanne Lowery?"

I frowned when the ink suddenly stopped flowing. I held the pen up to the light, curiously looking at the tube inside. There was plenty of ink left. What the hell?

"Sera Slone?"

I dropped the pen.

"Here," called a soft voice from somewhere to the front and left. My eyes automatically trailed towards the sound, and I clenched my hands into fists, trying to remain calm. She was sitting right up front, in typical good-girl Sera fashion, her thick brown hair loose and flat against her shoulders, like a heavy curtain. Of course – how could I not have anticipated this? I'd been certain I'd never see her again, due to the size of the school, but we were in the same college… our paths were bound to cross again at some point…

I stared at her profile, strangely mesmerized by the delicate shape of her upturned nose, unsure what to do about the conflicting urges wrestling inside me. I wanted desperately to talk to her, yet I wanted to never deal with her again. I just couldn't decide which I wanted more.

Shit. What was she doing taking astronomy at 10:10AM on Tuesdays and Thursdays? Had I mentioned taking this course at some point?

"Trevor Underwood?"

I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands. Calm, stay calm. I wasn't prepared for this… I liked to always be prepared, have a plan… I was so fucking sick of the curveballs that life kept throwing at me.

"Warren Worthington? Is Warren Worthington here?"

I slowly lifted my head, aware that first, the professor had apparently already called my name three times and I'd somehow missed it, second, my face was blood-red and flushed from my sudden panic, and third, everyone in the class, including Sera Slone, was staring at me. I knew I shouldn't have done it – and I tried, I honestly tried not to look at her – but I couldn't stop my eyes from shifting her way. Our gazes locked for an eternity – her eyes widened, and then I noticed a flush steal across her cheeks. Ah, recognition.

And in an instant, she'd dropped her gaze and turned back around, staring forward at the professor. The only one. The rest of my classmates continued to ogle me, forming their first opinions before I could even open my mouth.

"Warren Worthington?" the professor repeated once more, visibly irritated.

I coughed, wishing I'd been blessed with the power of invisibility and not flight. "Yeah," I muttered. "Here."

"Thank you," he said sarcastically. "Carrie Young?"

The rest of the class slowly turned around, and I leaned my head back, exhaling loudly. Options, what were my options? I could drop the class and take it later, but it was only offered in the spring semester, and the only other time it was offered this year conflicted with another class I had to take. I could simply ignore her – but that, it seemed, was going to be easier said than done.

Or, I could actually talk to her.

Fuck! I'd always known life would get harder as I got older, but Christ... with this kind of stress eating away at me every time I turned around, I'd die of a heart attack before I turned forty.

Calm. Stay calm. There's nothing you can do about it now, since you're here, so just wait until you get home and work something out. I closed my eyes, letting my rational inner voice soothe me. A logical statement. Once I was home, I could get out the class schedule, maybe make some calls, pull some strings... or not. I'd just have to wait and see. Exhaling loudly, I picked up my pen and pretended to take notes as the professor began his lecture.

When class ended, I shot out of the room, the first one to exit the door despite having sat in the very back of the room. I stalked down the hallway, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from my brow, thanking God that I didn't have any more classes that day. But I stopped just before I reached the stairs, realizing that in my haste to get the hell out of the room, I'd left my backpack behind.

"Fantastic," I muttered. So much for getting out ahead of everyone else. I pulled an abrupt about-face and marched back towards the door. And as I rushed back into the room, my method of staring at the floor to avoid all eye contact betrayed me – I ran smack into something tall, soft, and perfumed.

Sera cried out in surprise as I walked into her, backpedaling into one of the desks behind her and landing in an ungainly heap on the floor. She grimaced in pain as she hit, and I immediately felt guilty – I was the classic case of a man who didn't know his own strength, especially when I'd been naturally infused with such strange, strong abilities to begin with. If she'd run into another man, she'd have simply been knocked back a step or two, but I'd rammed her clear into the row of desks five feet back.

"Are you okay?" I heard one of our other classmates ask, and for the first time, I realized that there were still others in the room. Sera looked up at me from the floor, her hair a little mussed, lips slightly parted in halted words, and slightly dazed. I didn't know what to do – ignore her, get my stuff and move on, and risk looking like even more of an asshole? Help her up? Apologize? Which option would make me less conspicuous?

Luckily – I suppose – Sera quickly solved that dilemma for me. "I'msosorry," she mumbled in one long, thick word, and before I could react, she'd leaped up with admirable speed and dashed past me out the door.

Just like she did that night at the apartment…

I blinked, absolutely loathing the fact that I'd been nothing but the center of attention all day. As my classmates stared first at Sera's departing shadow and then at me, I shrugged, my voice straining to sound nonchalant.

"Guess she was in a hurry," I said, coughing, before rapidly walking to get my backpack and leaving.

xxxxx

I made a decision in the day between astronomy lectures: If Sera approached me, I would give in, listen to her, and we'd talk. If not, I'd continue to ignore her and we could both pretend nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened. I could opt out of the class and take it at another time, to prevent any future awkwardness.

But as it turns out, I didn't have to worry about finding another astronomy section, or dropping the class, or having some dreaded heartfelt talk with Sera. Because on Thursday, when I reluctantly returned to the Morgan building for my second astronomy lecture, she was gone.

"I'm passing around a new class roster," the professor announced at the beginning of class. "We had a few people drop, a few people add in, so I'm going to take attendance for the first few weeks until things are settled. Just sign next to your name to show you attended today."

I couldn't understand why I was antsy to get the sheet, but I nearly snatched it out of the hands of the girl in front of me, ignoring the way she gave me a not-so-subtle once-over as she turned around. I quickly scanned the list, looking not for my name, but hers.

It wasn't there. She'd dropped the class.

And despite the conflicted thoughts I'd had the first day, I felt my heart sink. She'd dropped the class. She wasn't going to apologize anymore; she was done. So done, in fact, that she'd removed herself from my vicinity. It hadn't seemed like a big deal when I'd thought about dropping the class; after all, I was leaving her.

But when the situation was reversed... I couldn't help but feel, deep down, like I had been abandoned.