The summer sun is still hot in mid-August, but the hallways of East Highland High feel cold and empty to Rue. It's been two months since Nate died, two months since everything unraveled. The finality of it all hit her in pieces, like shards of glass sinking deeper under her skin with every passing day. She's still here, but nothing feels real—she moves through each day like a ghost, floating on autopilot, doing her best to get through senior year for the sake of the baby she's carrying, even as everything else in her life feels like it's crumbling.
This morning has been a rough one. She's exhausted from nights of fitful sleep, haunted by memories, regrets, and this slow-burning anger that she can't shake. And when the nausea hit hard in third period, she barely made it to the bathroom in time. She's trying to hold it together, but it's all too much. The stares, the whispers, the pitying looks her teachers give her like she's some tragic figure they don't quite know how to talk to. And the weight of it all just keeps building, pressing down on her until she can hardly breathe.
She doesn't realize she's crying until she's alone in a bathroom stall, clutching her stomach as if that will somehow hold everything inside. The quiet, choked sobs echo off the tiles, filling the empty space around her. She doesn't know if she's crying from exhaustion, from grief, or from the sheer loneliness that's wrapped itself around her heart. Maybe it's all of it. She's tired of being strong, tired of pretending she's okay when every part of her feels like it's falling apart.
And she's tired of being angry at him. Tired of hating him as much as she misses him.
Why did he have to leave her with this mess? Why did he have to leave her, period? She leans her head back against the cold stall wall, taking a shuddering breath. She misses him. She misses him in a way she can't even put into words, this ache that goes bone-deep, this hollow place inside her that nothing seems to fill. But at the same time, the anger simmers. He left her here, pregnant and alone, to pick up the pieces of their fractured life. To carry their child, their messed-up legacy, without him. He left her to deal with all the pain, all the weight of their choices—and she hates him a little for that.
They didn't have the perfect relationship. They didn't pretend to be better than they were, didn't try to fix each other. They just… existed, raw and messy and real. But wasn't he supposed to be stronger than this? Wasn't he supposed to stay?
She presses a hand to her stomach, feeling the faintest hint of life growing inside her, and the weight of it hits her all over again. She's carrying his child—this tiny, fragile connection to him that feels like the only solid thing in her world right now. And part of her is angry at him even for this. For leaving her with something so heavy, so much bigger than herself. He should've known. He should've been here. Instead, he left, and she's the one holding onto this last piece of him, this little life that didn't ask to be born into their broken world.
She can't shake the memory of how he used to laugh off his full name and how he'd roll his eyes whenever anyone called him Nathaniel. That's not me, he'd say with a smirk, that's some other guy. He hated anything that felt too formal, too restrained, too much like the version of himself his parents tried to mold him into. He wanted to be free, to be something raw and real and his own, but he never found a way to escape the weight of all that anger and pain. And in the end, he chose to let it swallow him. To leave her behind in a way that feels almost like a punishment.
And now she's here, trying to pick up the pieces with a future she hadn't planned, a life growing inside her that he never knew about. She wonders what he would have thought if he'd known. If it would've changed anything, if it would've made him stay. But she knows she'll never get the answer to that question, and the not-knowing is a wound she doesn't know how to heal. She resents him for that, for leaving her with this silence, this emptiness, and no answers.
Another wave of tears hits her, and she bites down on her lip, trying to muffle the sound. She wants to disappear, to fall back into the numbness she used to chase, that familiar emptiness that made everything else fade away. It would be so easy—just one slip, one taste, and the world would go quiet again. But she can't. She knows she can't. There's too much at stake now, too much riding on her staying clean, staying here. Too much resting on her holding it together, even if he couldn't.
She's not just living for herself anymore. She's living for this tiny life, this last piece of him that she carries, the part of him that never got a chance to see the world. She has to keep going, even if it feels impossible. She has to be more than she thought she could be, more than he ever got to be. And part of her hates that too, hates that she has to be the one to stay strong, to hold on, while he got to let go.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Rue wipes her face with the back of her hand, her cheeks damp and her eyes red-rimmed. She forces herself to stand up, to straighten her shoulders, even though every part of her feels like collapsing. As she steps out of the stall, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror—her hair messy, her face blotchy, her body visibly changed by the life growing inside her. She looks like someone she doesn't recognize, someone she's unsure how to be.
She presses her hand over her belly, closing her eyes as she whispers to herself, to him, to the tiny life that binds them together. "I'm still here," she murmurs, like a promise, a reminder, something to hold onto.
And even though it hurts, even though she's terrified, angry, and broken and doesn't know how she'll make it through, she takes one more breath, then another. She's still here. She's still fighting. For him, for herself, for the life she's carrying.
One step at a time, she walks out of the bathroom, grounding herself in the quiet, steady rhythm of life that's still moving forward.
The first day of senior year had been brutal.
Rue had felt the stares burning into her back all day, the whispers that followed her through every hallway. She saw the pity in her teachers' faces when they looked at her swollen belly, how her classmates would glance at her, then quickly look away, like they were afraid of catching her sadness. It was like being on display, an exhibit of all the ways life could go wrong.
By the time the final bell rang, Rue felt hollowed out. She'd held it together all day, forcing herself to keep moving, to ignore the weight of all those eyes on her. But now, walking away from the school, she didn't have anywhere else to go. She couldn't face her mom's hovering concern, the worried looks she'd been getting since the summer started. She didn't want to go home, where everything reminded her of how her life was falling apart, of how Nate was gone and wasn't coming back.
Instead, she finds herself walking towards the Jacobs' house.
She knows Marsha wouldn't want her here. Knows she is probably risking Marsha's anger just by stepping onto the driveway. But that almost makes it feel right, like they are breaking the rules together, like they used to. She misses that feeling of sneaking around, of knowing that Nate is beside her in the mess, matching her in all the recklessness. Being with him has always been forbidden, a little dangerous, but it has been theirs.
When she gets to the front door, she hesitates, her hand hovering over the doorbell. For just a second, she lets herself imagine that Nate will open the door and that he'll stand there with that half-smirk, arms crossed like he is daring her to tell him why she is here.
But the door opens, and it is only Marina, the Jacobs' housekeeper. She looks at Rue with a mixture of sympathy and understanding, her gaze softening as she takes in Rue's tired face, her tear-streaked cheeks.
"Come in," Marina says gently, stepping aside. There is no judgment in her voice, no questions. Just a quiet acceptance that makes Rue's throat tighten with gratitude. Rue steps inside, her heart heavy, and lets Maria close the door behind her.
The house is so quiet, and with Marsha gone, it feels empty, as if it, too, is mourning Nate. Rue moves through the hallways like she is walking through a dream, her fingers brushing against the walls, her feet carrying her up the stairs before she even realizes what she is doing.
When she reaches Nate's room, she stops in the doorway, the sight of his things hitting her like a punch to the gut. His bed is still made, his football jersey still hangs on the wall, and the faint scent of his cologne lingers in the air, like he has just left, like he might come back at any moment.
Rue steps inside, closing the door softly behind her. She moves to his bed and lies down, hugging his pillow tightly, breathing in the last traces of him. The weight of everything she has been holding back crashes over her all at once—the grief, the loneliness, the anger that he is not here, that he has left her to face this on her own.
She presses her face into the pillow, her tears soaking into the fabric as she whispers, "You promised, Nate. You promised you would be here. You weren't supposed to leave me like this." Her voice shakes with the rawness of it, the truth she has not let herself feel until now.
Everything about today—the stares, the whispers, the weight of everyone else's pity—makes her miss him more. Nate would not have looked at her like that. He would stand beside her with that fierce, protective scowl that warned everyone else to back off. They had shared something messy and dark, something that does not fit into anyone else's world, but it is theirs. He had understood her, all the ugly, broken pieces she tried to hide. He did not want to change her, and she never asked him to be anyone other than who he was.
But now he is gone, and she is left here with the pieces of their lives, shattered and scattered around her, impossible to put back together. She presses a hand to her stomach, feeling the faint swell beneath her fingertips, this fragile life he has left behind, a piece of him that will never know him.
Rue doesn't realize she's drifting off until a soft voice pulls her back to consciousness.
"I… made you something to eat."
She blinks, lifting her head to see Marina standing in the doorway, holding a small tray. The older woman's face is gentle, her expression filled with a quiet compassion that makes Rue's chest tighten.
"You should eat," Marina says, her voice kind but firm, a gentle nudge back to the world.
Rue sits up slowly, wiping her face, feeling a strange sense of embarrassment mixed with gratitude. She knows Marina doesn't have to be kind to her, doesn't have to let her in, doesn't have to understand. But she does. And right now, it's all Rue has.
She accepts the tray, her hands trembling as she looks down at the simple meal Marina has prepared. For a moment, she feels like a kid again, being taken care of in a way that is foreign but comforting, a reminder that she isn't entirely alone.
As she eats, Rue glances around Nate's room, feeling the strange, forbidden thrill of being there without anyone's permission. It's like they're sneaking around again, just the two of them, a tiny rebellion against the world.
And though he isn't there, she feels a little less alone. For the first time since the day he died, she feels like he is close, like some part of him is lingering in the space around her.