The Boy Who Knew Me First

Season 1

Episode 6

by Joxy

The Boy Who Knew Me First - Season 1, Episode 6: The Weight

Chapter 1: CHAPTER 1: DISTANCE

Previously On...

Last episode: Ethan confronted his father after the winter tournament, refusing to cut Sophia out. Robert's ultimatum: Michigan prep school immediately or lose everything. Christmas together knowing separation was coming. New Year's Eve kiss before he left. She rejected MIT's early acceptance because being with him mattered more than any college. Now it's late January, and they're 800 miles apart.

The whispers started before Sophia even reached her locker.

That particular quality of voices that aren't trying to be quiet, that want to be overheard. Monday morning, 7:45 AM. Her first day back at school since Ethan had been shipped to Michigan a week ago. She walked through the main entrance of Churchill High with her chin up and her expression carefully blank—the way you walk when you know everyone's watching.

"That's her."

"Heard Price sent his son away."

"Like, actually shipped him to another state."

"Can't believe she chose him over MIT."

Sophia kept walking. The hallway stretched ahead like a gauntlet, lined with faces that all seemed to turn toward her with synchronized precision. Some curious, some sympathetic, some just hungry for drama. She focused on the north stairwell at the end of the corridor. Counting steps.

Forty-three to the stairs. Forty-two. Forty-one.

Her locker was on the second floor, northeast corner. She'd calculated the route with the fewest people: north stairs, east hallway, third bay on the right. She'd memorized it last night lying awake at 2 AM, planning this walk like a military operation.

Someone had posted about Ethan leaving. Not the details—his family was too powerful for that—but enough. "E.P. transferring mid-year to Michigan prep school for hockey development. Guess some relationships aren't worth staying for." Posted Saturday night. 847 likes by Sunday afternoon. Dozens of comments Sophia hadn't read but could imagine.

Thirty-five steps. Thirty-four.

She'd dressed carefully this morning. Black jeans, gray sweater, her Canada Badminton jacket—armor of normalcy. Someone whose life was exactly as planned. She'd done her makeup to hide the exhaustion, the fact that she'd barely slept in seven days. Braided her hair the way she always did for competition: tight, controlled, nothing loose.

Twenty-eight steps. Twenty-seven.

"Sophia!"

Maya's voice cut through the whispers like a knife. Sophia's best friend waited at the base of the stairs, arms crossed, expression fierce. Maya Foster: transferred from Toronto two years ago, bonded with Sophia over shared love of science and mutual disdain for unnecessary drama. Right now she looked ready to fight anyone who so much as looked at Sophia wrong.

"Ignore them." Maya said as Sophia reached her. "Head up. You did nothing wrong."

"Feels like I did."

"Feelings aren't facts. Come on."

They climbed the stairs together. Maya positioned herself on Sophia's right—the side facing the hallway, blocking the worst of the stares. It was a small thing, that physical shield. Sophia's throat went tight.

"Did you see the post?" Sophia asked quietly.

"Saw it. Reported it. Got it taken down." Maya's voice was matter-of-fact. "Posted my own thing. 'Some people transfer schools for opportunities. Others stay stuck in gossip. Know which one you want to be.'"

"Maya, you didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did. Because I'm your friend and friends don't let friends walk through this alone."

Second floor. East hallway. The lockers here were newer, the light better. Fewer people. Sophia's shoulders relaxed fractionally. Her locker three bays down: number 237, covered in the periodic table stickers she'd put up freshman year when she'd been young enough to think that was cool.

Then she saw Becca.

Rebecca Morrison stood at locker 241, four down from Sophia's. Talking to Emma Chen (no relation) and Alyssa Park—the core of what used to be their friend group before everything got complicated. Before Ethan. Before Christmas. Before choices had to be made.

Becca looked up as Sophia approached. Their eyes met.

For a second, Sophia thought Becca might say something. They'd been friends since ninth grade. Studied together, competed in math competitions together, done science fair projects together. Becca had been at her house for dinner probably fifty times. Sophia had been at Becca's lake house every summer.

Becca's expression: carefully neutral. Not angry—that would have been easier. Just closed. She looked at Sophia with the polite distance of someone looking at a stranger in a grocery store, then deliberately turned back to Emma and Alyssa.

That dignified silence was louder than any confrontation could have been.

"Come on." Maya murmured, guiding Sophia past.

Sophia opened her locker on autopilot. Old textbooks and the lavender sachet her mom had insisted she hang there. She'd stuck a photo of her and Ethan on the inside of the door back in November—just the two of them at a hockey game, his arm around her shoulders, both smiling like they'd discovered something impossible. Looking at it now, the distance felt like a physical weight.

Eight hundred miles. Different time zone. Different life.

Her phone vibrated. Text from her mom.

Have a good day. Remember we're here if you need to talk. Love you.

Sophia stared at the message. Her parents had been careful with her since Ethan left. Careful the way you're careful around something breakable. The disappointment was still there—she'd rejected MIT's early acceptance, had thrown away something they'd worked toward for years—but under it was something else. Concern. Maybe even guilt.

She texted back: Thanks. Love you too.

"First period?" Maya asked.

"Calculus."

"Same. Let's go."

They walked together to Mrs. Patterson's classroom, arrived early, took seats in the back corner. Sophia pulled out her textbook and homework—perfectly completed, of course, because her academic performance was one thing she could still control. She'd done the problem sets lying in bed at midnight. Numbers didn't whisper. Equations didn't judge.

Other students filtered in. Some glanced at her, curious or sympathetic. Others ignored her entirely. Tyler Huang came in with his hockey friends, saw her, smirked. Ethan's teammate—former teammate now—had never hidden his opinion that Ethan was wasting his time with academics and relationships when he could be focusing on hockey.

"Heard your boyfriend got sent to Michigan." Tyler said loudly, dropping into his seat two rows ahead. "Bet that makes senior year easier for you. No distractions."

Sophia didn't respond. Kept her eyes on her textbook, on the elegant curves of the integral she'd completed last night.

"Just saying, sometimes things work out how they're supposed to. Price is where he needs to be. You're here. Clean break."

"Tyler." Maya said sharply. "Read the room and shut up."

"What? I'm just saying—"

"No one cares what you're saying. Turn around and focus on not failing calculus again."

Tyler's friends laughed. He scowled but turned back to face the front. Mrs. Patterson entered then. The class settled. Maya's hand squeezed Sophia's briefly under the desk—solidarity, support, grounding.

The class began. Derivatives of logarithmic functions. Sophia took notes with mechanical precision, her handwriting perfect, her attention divided between the board and the phone in her pocket that remained stubbornly silent.

Breakfast that morning had been a masterclass in tension.

The Chen family sat around their kitchen table in silence punctuated only by the clink of cutlery and the rustle of her father's newspaper. Her dad, Michael Chen, was reading the local section—deliberately not the sports section, Sophia noticed. He'd been avoiding hockey news for a week.

Her mother, Linda, ate her congee with delicate precision, eyes down. But Sophia could feel the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between them like morning fog.

Tommy, her younger brother, fourteen and oblivious to subtlety, finally broke the silence. "Is everyone just going to be weird forever, or...?"

"Tommy." Their mother said quietly. "Eat your breakfast."

"I'm just saying, it's been like this for days. Nobody's talking. Nobody's—"

"Enough." Their father's voice: soft but final.

Sophia pushed rice around her bowl. She'd woken at 6 AM after four hours of fitful sleep. Showered, dressed, came downstairs to this tableau of family dysfunction. All because of choices she'd made. All because of a boy 800 miles away.

"I have early badminton practice. Coach Kim wants me there at 7."

Her mother looked up. "Sophia—"

"I'm fine, Mom."

"You look tired."

"I'm fine."

They looked at each other across the table. Linda Chen's expression was complicated—disappointment and love and worry all mixed together in a way that made Sophia want to cry or scream or both.

"MIT would have emailed back by now." Her father said quietly, still not looking up from his newspaper. "If you hadn't— if the acceptance was still active, we'd have heard about housing assignments. Financial aid details."

Sophia's hands tightened on her spoon. "I know."

"Do you?" Now he looked up. Michael Chen had the same dark eyes as his daughter, the same capacity for intensity. "Do you know what you've given up?"

"Michael." Her mother warned.

"She needs to understand—"

"I understand." Sophia said, her voice harder than she meant. "I understand that I made a choice. I understand what it cost. I understand you're disappointed."

"We're not disappointed in you. We're disappointed for you. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

Silence again. Tommy looked between them all with wide eyes, smart enough to stay quiet now.

"I have practice." Sophia repeated. She stood, carried her mostly-untouched bowl to the sink. "I'll be home by 4."

She grabbed her badminton bag from the mudroom—rackets packed and ready, because that at least was something she'd prepared last night—and headed for the door.

"Sophia." Her father called.

She stopped. Hand on the doorknob.

"We love you. You know that, right?"

She closed her eyes. "I know."

"We just want you to be happy."

"I know that too."

She left before the conversation could continue. Stepped out into the bitter January cold. Winnipeg winter: brutal and unforgiving. Minus twenty Celsius today, the kind of cold that stole your breath and made your lungs ache. The sky was that pale, washed-out gray that promised snow but never quite delivered. Everything felt frozen and waiting.

Her car was covered in frost. She scraped the windshield with numb fingers, watching ice fall away in sheets to reveal the glass beneath. Twenty minutes to the provincial training center. Twenty minutes of driving through empty morning streets with only her thoughts for company.

She got in. Started the engine. Cranked the heat. Sat waiting for the windshield to clear. Her phone on the passenger seat, screen blank.

No messages. No calls. No unfamiliar numbers.

The burner phone he'd promised was still hypothetical. He'd said he would find a way to call, but a week had passed with only one text from his regular number before he'd left: On plane. Will find way to reach you. I promise. Love you.

Seven days ago.

The windshield cleared. Sophia put the car in reverse and headed to practice.

The badminton court was sanctuary.

Coach Kim was already there when Sophia arrived at 6:50 AM. Setting up the net with practiced efficiency. Kim Young-mi: forty-three, former Korean national team member, competed in two Olympics before a shoulder injury ended her playing career. Immigrated to Canada fifteen years ago and built one of the best badminton programs in Western Canada.

She looked up as Sophia entered. Took in Sophia's expression in one glance. Nodded toward the changing room.

"Ten minutes. Then warm-up."

No questions. No sympathy. No gossip. Sophia's shoulders dropped an inch from where they'd been hunched near her ears.

The changing room was empty. Sophia put on her practice gear—black shorts, red tank top, her worn practice shoes with the grip she'd spent hours perfecting. Tied her hair back more securely. Looked at herself in the mirror. Same face as last week. Same eyes. But something in them looked older.

Back on the court, Coach Kim had music playing—instrumental, upbeat. Other players arriving: Sarah, training for nationals in the under-18 women's singles. Marcus and Jay, the men's doubles team. Elena, who played mixed doubles with her brother.

No one asked Sophia about Ethan. Either they didn't know, or Coach Kim had warned them off. Either way, Sophia was grateful.

"Footwork drills." Coach Kim announced. "Four corners, three minutes each station. Then shadow movements."

They spread across the courts. Sophia took position at her corner, racket ready. When the whistle blew, she moved.

Front court. Back court. Side to side. The shuttle wasn't even there but she chased its ghost—reaching, lunging, recovering. Her legs burned. Her lungs screamed in the dry, heated air. Physical pain was clean and simple. It had a purpose. It ended when you stopped moving.

"Faster." Coach Kim called. "Chen, you're holding back. Push."

Sophia pushed. Moved like the court was on fire and only motion would save her. Sweat dripped into her eyes. Her thighs trembled. Still she pushed.

"Time!" Coach Kim's whistle cut the air.

Sophia stopped. Bent double. Gasping. Her heart hammered in her chest. When she straightened, Coach Kim was watching her with those sharp eyes that missed nothing.

"You're playing angry."

"Using it." Sophia replied between breaths.

Coach Kim studied her for another moment, then nodded. "Good. But don't let it make you reckless. Anger is fuel. Don't let it be fire."

"Yes, Coach."

"Water break. Then court practice."

Sophia grabbed her bottle, drank deep. The cold water hit her overheated throat like a blessing. She closed her eyes, centered herself. On the court, she was just an athlete. Not a daughter who'd disappointed her parents. Not a girl whose boyfriend was 800 miles away. Not someone navigating gossip and judgment.

Just a player. Just this moment. Just the shuttle and the net and the precise geometry of movement.

"Chen!" Coach Kim called. "You're up with Sarah. Singles game to fifteen."

Sophia took position across from Sarah Kim, no relation to Coach. Sarah: seventeen, bound for University of Toronto on badminton scholarship, had beaten Sophia exactly once in competition. She grinned across the net.

"Heard you've had a rough week. Go easy on me?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."

The rally began. Sarah served long, testing. Sophia returned with a sharp cross-court drop shot that barely cleared the net. Sarah lunged, returned short. Sophia smashed from mid-court—power and precision combined. The shuttle hit the line with a crack.

"Point. Sophia leads one-zero."

They played. Sophia found her rhythm—the back and forth, reading Sarah's body language to predict shots, careful management of stamina and aggression. At the net: quick. From back court: powerful. Her smashes had velocity that came from somewhere deep and desperate.

"Fifteen-eight. Sophia wins."

She'd barely felt it. The points had blurred together into a continuous state of motion and reaction. Sarah was breathing hard, shaking her head with rueful admiration.

"Whatever's going on with you, bottle it for nationals."

Nationals. Right. In two months, she'd compete for the Canadian junior championship in the under-18 category. Last year she'd placed fourth. This year, Coach Kim thought she could medal.

If she could hold herself together that long.

Practice continued. Two hours of drills, games, conditioning. By the time Sophia showered and changed, her body was a mass of pleasant exhaustion and her mind was, finally, quiet.

She checked her phone in the parking lot: 9:15 AM. School started at 8:30 but she'd cleared the absence with the office yesterday—training exemption, one of the perks of being a nationally ranked athlete. She had second period free, then third period was chemistry.

She sat in her car with the engine running, heat blasting, phone in hand. Still no messages. Still no unfamiliar numbers.

He'd said he would find a way. She had to trust that.

The drive to school took fifteen minutes. She arrived at 9:40, parked, grabbed her bag. The building loomed ahead—brick and glass and the promise of whispers. She thought about the homework she'd completed, the tests she'd ace, the veneer of perfection she'd maintain.

She could do this. She'd done hard things before.

But when she walked back through those doors and felt the weight of stares again, she admitted the truth only to herself: nothing had been this hard before.

Her phone vibrated at 11:47 PM.

Sophia was lying in bed in the dark, staring at her ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars she'd put up when she was twelve making constellations she'd long since memorized. She wasn't sleeping. She hadn't really slept since Ethan left.

The phone vibrated again. Unknown number. Area code she didn't recognize.

Her heart stopped, then restarted at double speed. She grabbed the phone, answered.

"Hello?"

"Hi." His voice. Whispered, exhausted, but unmistakably his.

Sophia sat up, pressing the phone to her ear like she could pull him through it. "Ethan."

"Hi." He said again. She could hear the smile in his voice. "Sorry it took so long. Getting a burner phone at prep school is harder than you'd think."

"Where are you?"

"Bathroom. There's a bed check at midnight. I have thirteen minutes."

Thirteen minutes. After a week of silence, thirteen minutes felt simultaneously like forever and no time at all.

"Tell me everything. Tell me what it's like."

"It's—" He paused. Exhaled. "It's hell, Soph. Clinical and controlled and I swear they track every breath. The dorm is like a hotel—nice on the surface but completely soulless. My roommate is a junior whose dad is some NHL executive and he literally reports to his father every night about what I do. What time I sleep, what I eat, who I talk to."

"God, Ethan."

"Hockey practice is 6 AM and 8 PM. Between that is school, which is actually rigorous—they weren't lying about the academic side. Small classes, intense, lots of individual attention. But there's no freedom. Every minute is scheduled. Every activity monitored."

Sophia pulled her knees to her chest, curling around the phone. "Can you leave? Like, go off campus?"

"With permission and supervision, yeah. There's a mall fifteen minutes away. We can go on weekends if we've hit our training metrics for the week." His voice was dry. "So basically, no."

"And your phone?"

"They took it. Gave me a school phone that's monitored. All calls logged, all texts read. That's why I had to get this one. Bought it at the mall last Saturday during 'earned recreation time.'" The bitter emphasis on those last three words said everything about what he thought of the phrase.

"How did you even—"

"Cash that Jordan sent me. Long story. He's been helping."

Jordan. Sophia made a mental note to thank him. "The team?"

"Good. Really good, actually. These kids are headed for NCAA D1 programs. A few are already committed. The level of play is—" He paused. "It's what I'd need if I were serious about hockey as a career."

"Are you?"

"Serious about hockey? I don't know anymore." His voice dropped even lower. "A week ago I knew. Now I'm here and all I can think about is that I'm 800 miles away from you and I'm not allowed to call you and this was supposed to be what I wanted."

Sophia closed her eyes. "Don't. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Regret it. Regret choosing this. You're there because your dad forced you, not because you chose it."

"I'm there because I chose you. Because I wouldn't let him make me cut you out, so he made me go. That's still a choice."

"Then I'm here because I chose you too. And I'd choose you again."

Silence. Then: "Yeah?"

"Every time. Every version of this. You."

She heard him breathe out, shaky. "God, I miss you."

"Miss you more."

"Not possible."

"Definitely possible. I have empirical evidence."

He laughed, soft and fond. "You're giving me science arguments at midnight?"

"You love my science arguments."

"I really do." Another pause. "How's school? How are your parents? How's badminton?"

"School is complicated. Lots of gossip. Lots of stares. Maya's been great. Becca won't talk to me. Your old teammates think I'm a distraction who messed up your life."

"They're idiots."

"Agreed. But they're loud idiots." Sophia picked at a loose thread on her blanket. "My parents are disappointed. They won't say it directly but I can feel it. MIT would have sent housing information by now. They keep checking the mail like it might show up anyway."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I knew what I was doing." She said it firmly, as much to convince herself as him. "And badminton is good. Great, actually. I'm playing angry, Coach says. Using it."

"I bet you're terrifying on the court right now."

"Little bit."

"Wish I could see it."

"Wish you could too."

Silence fell, comfortable and aching all at once. Sophia looked at her alarm clock: 11:57 PM. His bed check was in three minutes.

"I have to go." Ethan said, reading her mind. "Bed check is random sweep. If they catch me with this phone—"

"I know. Go."

"Tomorrow? Same time?"

"I'll be awake."

"Sophia?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for answering. Thank you for being you. For still being here."

Her throat closed. "Where else would I be?"

"I don't know. I'm just scared sometimes that you'll realize this is too hard. That I'm not worth it."

"You're worth it." She said fiercely. "Every second of hard. Every piece of this. Don't doubt that."

"Okay." He sounded steadier. "Okay. I'll call tomorrow."

"Be safe."

"You too. I love you."

"Love you more."

"Not possi—" The call cut off.

Sophia sat in the dark, phone still pressed to her ear, listening to silence. Thirteen minutes had felt like thirteen seconds. Her whole body ached with missing him—physical, visceral, undeniable.

But he'd called. He'd found a way. He'd kept his promise.

She set the phone on her nightstand and lay back down. The stars on her ceiling glowed faintly. Cygnus, Lyra, Aquila—the Summer Triangle they'd talked about back in October, lying on the hood of his car looking up at the real sky. He'd taught her the myths. She'd taught him the science.

She could do this. She could handle the distance, the gossip, the disappointment. She could carry the weight of her choice.

As long as he called.

As long as his voice whispered across 800 miles of dark.

As long as they had thirteen minutes before midnight.

Tuesday was better. Or at least, less actively awful.

The whispers had faded to background noise. People were already moving on to new drama—apparently Tyler had hooked up with someone's ex at a weekend party, and that was more immediately interesting than Sophia's long-distance situation. She was grateful for the short attention span of high school gossip.

Chemistry class was awkward. She'd always partnered with Becca—they'd been lab partners since sophomore year, had the kind of natural rhythm where one of them could start a sentence and the other would finish it. Now Becca was partnered with Emma, and Sophia was paired with David Lin, a quiet kid who was brilliant at chemistry but had never said more than ten words at a time to her.

"So." David said as they set up their titration equipment. "Want me to handle the buret or the flask?"

"I'll do buret. Your handwriting is better for recording."

"Cool."

They worked in companionable silence. David was meticulous and careful. Sophia found herself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of lab work. Measure, mix, observe, record. Chemistry was reliable. Molecules behaved according to predictable rules. Reactions happened or they didn't, based on the properties of the substances involved, not on feelings or choices or the fact that the person you loved was 800 miles away.

"You okay?" David asked quietly, midway through their third trial.

Sophia glanced at him, surprised. "Yeah. Why?"

He shrugged. "You looked sad for a second. None of my business. Just checking."

It was such a simple thing—that quiet concern from someone who barely knew her. Sophia's throat went tight.

"I'm okay. Thanks for asking."

"Sure." He returned to his careful notation. They finished the lab in silence.

Lunch was her and Maya in their usual corner of the cafeteria. Maya had brought sushi from the good place downtown and was explaining her latest coding project—something about machine learning algorithms and natural language processing that was simultaneously over Sophia's head and fascinating.

"So basically," Maya said around a bite of salmon roll, "I'm teaching the computer to recognize sarcasm. Which is harder than you'd think because sarcasm is all about context and tone, and computers are terrible at subtext."

"Sounds like most people I know."

"Right? Like, if I say 'great job' with one tone, it's sincere. With another tone, it's scathing. How do you teach a machine that difference?" Maya gestured with her chopsticks for emphasis. "Language is wild."

"Have you tried training it on Twitter? That's like, concentrated sarcasm."

"Oh God, that's actually a great idea. I'm going to sound like the worst person alive after that dataset."

They laughed. For a moment, Sophia felt almost normal. Like she was just a girl having lunch with her best friend, talking about projects and possibilities, not carrying the weight of impossible choices.

"So." Maya said more carefully. "Have you heard from him?"

Sophia hesitated, then nodded. "Last night. Got a burner phone. Called at 11:47."

"How is he?"

"Surviving. Hating it. But surviving." Sophia picked at her sandwich. "He's got like, twelve minutes before bed check. That's all we get."

"That's brutal."

"Yeah."

"But you got to talk. That's something."

"It is." Sophia smiled, small but real. "It's everything, actually."

Maya reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "You guys are going to make it. I know it."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're both stubborn as hell and you love each other. That's a powerful combination."

Sophia wanted to believe her. Held onto that confidence like a lifeline.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes and homework and the ordinary rhythm of school. She aced a calculus quiz. She contributed thoughtfully to English class discussion of The Great Gatsby. She ignored Tyler's pointed stares and Becca's continued silence and the occasional whispers that still floated past her in hallways.

At 4:00 PM she went to badminton practice. Coach Kim worked them hard—conditioning drills, endurance training, match simulation. Sophia's legs were jelly by the time they finished at 6. She showered, changed, drove home in the dark winter evening.

Her parents were making dinner when she arrived. Her mom stir-frying vegetables, her dad setting the table. Tommy doing homework at the kitchen counter, headphones in. It looked almost normal.

"Hi, sweetheart." Her mom said. "How was practice?"

"Good. Coach thinks I'm ready for provincials next month."

"That's wonderful."

They ate dinner with careful conversation about school and practice and Tommy's upcoming science fair project. No one mentioned MIT. No one mentioned Ethan. The absence of those topics was loud but at least it wasn't hostile.

After dinner, Sophia retreated to her room. Homework, then reading, then lying in bed watching the clock tick toward 11:47 PM.

When her phone finally vibrated at 11:45, she answered before the first ring finished.

"Hi."

"Hi." Ethan said. He sounded a little more energetic tonight. "Okay, so you're going to appreciate this. The physics teacher here, Dr. Morrison, he's actually brilliant. Today we were talking about quantum mechanics and—"

"Wait, quantum mechanics in high school?"

"I know! It's an elective seminar. Only five students. And we got into this discussion about wave-particle duality and observation affecting outcomes, and I thought about you explaining interference patterns, remember? Back in October?"

Sophia smiled in the dark. "When you said physics was just math being pretentious?"

"I was wrong. Physics is math with an existential crisis, which is way more interesting."

"You're such a nerd."

"You love that I'm a nerd."

"I really do."

They talked about physics and hockey and the fact that Michigan winter was somehow colder than Winnipeg winter, which seemed impossible. They had eleven minutes tonight—one minute longer than yesterday, a small victory.

"Same time tomorrow?" Ethan asked as the minutes ran out.

"I'll be here."

"Sophia?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to figure out a way to see you. I don't know when or how but I will. This phone call thing—it's not enough."

Her heart hurt. "Ethan, you can't just leave. They're watching you."

"I know. But I'll find a way. I promise."

"Don't promise things you can't control."

"Too late. Already promised. I love you."

"Love you too. Be safe."

The call ended. Sophia lay in the dark, holding onto his promise like a secret. She didn't know if it was possible. She didn't know if they could survive months of this—twelve-minute phone calls and 800 miles and the weight of everyone's disappointment.

But tonight, she had his voice in her ear and his promise in her heart.

Tonight, that was enough.

Wednesday, the phone didn't ring at 11:45.

Or 11:50.

By 11:55, Sophia was sitting up in bed, panic rising in her chest. What if they'd found the burner phone? What if he'd been caught? What if his father had increased surveillance and Ethan couldn't get away?

11:57. Nothing.

11:58. Still nothing.

11:59. She was gripping her phone so hard her knuckles were white.

12:00. Midnight. The time of his bed check. He'd missed it. He wasn't calling. Something was wrong.

12:01. Sophia was halfway to texting Maya when her phone vibrated.

Unknown number. She answered on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi." He sounded breathless, stressed. "God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Bed check was random tonight. They moved it up and I almost missed you—"

"Are you okay?"

"Got a demerit for being late to room. Worth it. Hi."

Relief hit her so hard she felt dizzy. "Hi."

"I thought I wasn't going to be able to call. I was literally running down the hallway. My roommate is going to report me and I don't care. Had to hear your voice."

"You're insane."

"About you? Yeah."

They had four minutes—shorter tonight because he'd been late, because the world wasn't fair about these things. But four minutes of his voice was infinitely better than the alternative.

When the call ended and Sophia lay back down, she understood something with absolute clarity: this was their new reality. Stolen moments. Whispered calls. The constant uncertainty of whether they'd connect.

And she'd take it. Every piece. Every minute.

Because the alternative was not having him at all.

And that was unthinkable.

Next: Chapter 2 - "Legal"

End of Chapter 1

Approximately 5,500 words

Chapter 2: CHAPTER 2: LEGAL

The doorbell rang on Sunday morning at 9:47 AM.

Sophia was still in her pajamas, eating cereal at the kitchen counter while her parents read the newspaper and Tommy played video games in the living room. Normal Sunday morning. Lazy. Safe.

The doorbell rang again. Insistent.

Her father looked up, frowning. "We expecting anyone?"

"No," her mother said, already moving toward the door.

Sophia watched her mom check the peephole, saw her entire body go rigid. Linda Chen turned back to face the kitchen, her expression carefully controlled in a way that made Sophia's stomach drop.

"Michael," her mother said quietly. "It's Robert Price."

The newspaper crinkled in her father's hands. "What?"

"Robert Price. At our door. Alone."

Sophia's cereal turned to ash in her mouth. Ethan's father. Here. At their house.

Her dad stood, straightened his shirt—still casual Sunday clothes, but he pulled himself into professional posture. "Tommy, go to your room."

"But—"

"Now."

Tommy left, confused but obedient. Michael Chen walked to the door, opened it.

Robert Price stood on their front porch in an expensive coat and polished shoes, looking like he'd just come from somewhere important. Or was about to go somewhere important. He looked at Michael Chen with an expression that was cordial and cold at the same time.

"Mr. Chen. Sorry to drop by unannounced. I was hoping we could talk."

"About?" Michael's voice was neutral.

"About our children. About ending this situation before it gets more complicated." Robert's eyes flicked past Michael, found Sophia standing frozen in the kitchen. "Hello, Sophia."

She couldn't speak. Just stared at Ethan's father standing in her doorway like a threat made flesh.

"Mr. Price," her father said firmly, "if you want to have a conversation, we can schedule something through appropriate channels. But showing up at my house without notice—"

"Is rude. I know. I apologize." Robert didn't sound apologetic. "But I was in Winnipeg on business, and I thought a face-to-face conversation might be more productive than lawyers passing letters. May I come in? Just for a few minutes."

Sophia watched her parents exchange a look. Then her mother stepped back, opening the door wider.

"Five minutes," Linda said. "In the living room."

Robert Price entered their house.

He looked around as he walked through—taking in the modest furniture, the family photos on the walls, the lived-in warmth of a home that had actual people in it instead of just assets. Sophia couldn't tell if he was judging or just observing.

They sat in the living room—Robert on the armchair, her parents on the couch, Sophia hovering near the kitchen because no one had told her to leave and she wasn't about to miss this.

"So," Michael said. "You wanted to talk."

"I wanted to be direct." Robert leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I don't think you're bad people. I don't think Sophia is a bad kid. But I think this relationship between her and my son is a distraction neither of them can afford right now."

"That's not your decision to make," Sophia said before she could stop herself.

Robert turned to look at her. "You're right. It's Ethan's decision. But he's seventeen and in love, which means he's not thinking clearly. Someone has to think clearly for him."

"Maybe you should trust him to think for himself," Sophia shot back.

"Sophia," her mother warned gently.

"No, let her speak." Robert's attention was fully on her now. "Tell me, Sophia. What's your plan here? You and Ethan. Long-distance for a year and a half, then what? College together? Marriage? Hockey career that supports you both?"

"We haven't planned that far ahead—"

"Exactly. You're living in the moment. Which is fine for teenagers. But I'm responsible for my son's future, which means I have to plan further than the moment." Robert's voice was reasonable, patient, like he was explaining something obvious. "Ethan has potential—real potential—to play Division I hockey, maybe even professional. But only if he stays focused. Only if he doesn't get derailed by relationship drama and long-distance complications."

"His relationship with me isn't drama," Sophia said. "It's—"

"It's important to him. I understand that. But Sophia—" Robert's expression was almost sympathetic "—you're smart. You rejected MIT early acceptance. You know about sacrifice for goals. I'm asking you to understand that sometimes the kindest thing is to let go. Let Ethan focus on his trajectory without the weight of trying to maintain a relationship across 800 miles."

"You're asking me to break up with him."

"I'm asking you to consider what's best for him long-term. Not what feels good right now, but what actually serves his future."

"That's enough," Michael said firmly. "Mr. Price, you came here to have a reasonable conversation, but you're asking my daughter to make a choice that isn't yours to request. Sophia and Ethan's relationship is between them. Not you. Not us. Them."

"With respect, Mr. Chen, when that relationship is affecting my son's education and athletic development—"

"Then you talk to your son. Not to a seventeen-year-old girl you're trying to intimidate in her own home." Michael stood. "I think your five minutes are up."

Robert Price stood slowly. He looked at Sophia with something like regret mixed with determination.

"I'm not trying to be the villain here. I'm trying to protect my son. That's all any parent does." He pulled a business card from his pocket, set it on the coffee table. "My lawyer's information. Because if this conversation doesn't resolve things, the next conversation will be official. I'd rather not go there. But I will if I have to."

He walked to the door. Linda opened it. Robert Price stepped out onto the porch, turned back.

"Sophia. You seem like a bright, accomplished young woman. You have your own future to think about. Don't let someone else's dreams become the reason you compromise yours."

He left.

The door closed. The Chen family stood in stunned silence.

Then Sophia started shaking.

The letter arrived on Thursday afternoon.

Sophia had just gotten home from badminton practice, was still in her workout clothes, bag slung over her shoulder as she walked through the front door. Her mom was in the kitchen, and something about her posture—rigid, hands braced against the counter—made Sophia stop mid-step.

"Mom?"

Linda Chen turned. Her face was pale, lips pressed into a thin line. On the counter in front of her was a large manila envelope with a return address in small, precise print. Sophia couldn't read it from the doorway, but she could see the law firm letterhead.

"What is that?" Sophia asked, even though she already knew it wasn't good.

"It came certified mail. I had to sign for it." Her mother's voice was carefully controlled. "It's from Robert Price's lawyer."

The air left Sophia's lungs.

She dropped her bag and crossed to the counter, reaching for the envelope. Her mom didn't stop her. Inside was a thick sheaf of papers, official and intimidating. The first page was a letter on expensive letterhead: "Whitmore, Sanderson & Price, Attorneys at Law," with a downtown Minneapolis address.

Sophia's eyes skimmed the text, catching phrases that made her stomach turn:

...cease and desist all contact with Ethan Price...

...interference with the educational and athletic development of a minor...

...calculated pattern of behavior designed to manipulate...

...should contact persist, our client will pursue all available legal remedies, including but not limited to restraining orders and complaints to university admissions offices...

The paper shook in her hands. "This is insane. They can't—they can't accuse me of—"

"Keep reading," her mother said quietly.

Sophia forced her eyes back to the page. The next paragraph made her knees weak:

Ms. Chen's conduct demonstrates a calculated seduction of Mr. Price for the purpose of gaining social status and academic leverage. Her rejection of early admission to MIT immediately following Mr. Price's transfer suggests manipulation designed to maintain emotional control. This behavior constitutes harassment and emotional manipulation of a minor.

"Oh my God." Sophia looked up at her mother, hot tears stinging her eyes. "Mom, this is—this isn't what happened. You know that's not what happened."

"I know, sweetheart."

"We fell in love. That's—that's all we did. How is that illegal? How is loving someone manipulation?"

"It's not." Linda reached out and took the papers from Sophia's shaking hands. "This is Robert Price using the legal system to scare you. To control the situation."

"Is it working?" Sophia's voice cracked. "Because I'm terrified."

"Good reason to be." Her father's voice came from the doorway.

Michael Chen stood there still in his work clothes—suit and tie, briefcase in hand. He must have come home early. His expression was grave as he crossed to the counter and picked up the letter, reading it with the careful attention of someone who understood exactly what legal language meant.

"This is very serious," he said after a moment. "Robert Price has retained one of the most expensive law firms in Minneapolis. They don't make threats they can't back up."

"But I haven't done anything wrong!" Sophia's voice rose. "I've been at school. I've been at practice. I haven't even seen Ethan since he left!"

Her father's eyes sharpened. "Haven't seen him. But have you been in contact?"

Sophia froze. The burner phone in her backpack might as well have been burning a hole through the fabric. Three late-night calls. Whispered conversations. His voice across 800 miles saying I love you.

"Sophia," her mother said gently. "Have you been talking to him?"

"I—" She couldn't lie. Not to them. Not when they were looking at her like this. "He called. Three times. Late at night. Just... just to talk."

Her father closed his eyes. "Christ."

"We didn't do anything wrong! We just talked! We're—we're in love, and they shipped him to Michigan, and we just wanted to hear each other's voices—"

"I know." Michael's voice was tired. "I know, sweetheart. But from a legal perspective, any contact can be construed as violation of their demands. They've documented this. They have grounds."

"Grounds for what?"

"For whatever they want to threaten." He set the papers down. "A restraining order. Complaints to colleges—not just MIT, but anywhere you apply. Character references that paint you as manipulative, predatory—"

"I'm seventeen! Ethan's seventeen! We're the same age! How am I predatory?"

"It doesn't matter what's true," her father said heavily. "It matters what they can make a court believe. And Robert Price has unlimited resources to build that narrative."

Michael picked up the letter again, reread a section, and his jaw tightened. "Listen to this language—'calculated seduction.' This is textbook misogyny, blaming a teenage girl for a relationship. They're weaponizing sexist tropes against you, and they know it. This isn't about protecting Ethan. This is about control dressed up in legal language. It's emotional abuse using the legal system as a weapon."

Linda's expression hardened. "We both know what this really is. Wealthy white man with lawyers, using the system against an immigrant family. It's an old story."

"I know," Michael said quietly. "But we're not backing down."

Sophia felt like the floor was tilting. "So what do I do?"

Her parents exchanged a look—one of those married-couple conversations that happened in seconds without words. Then her mother reached out and took Sophia's hand.

"We need to talk to them," Linda said. "Your father and I, with Robert and his wife. Without lawyers, without you and Ethan. Just parents trying to find reasonable solution."

"They're not reasonable. Robert Price is—"

"I know what he is," her father interrupted. "But we have to try. Because the alternative is letting this escalate to the point where it actually damages your future, and I won't let that happen."

"When?" Sophia whispered.

"Tomorrow. I already called. Four PM at my office." Michael's expression was grim. "Neutral ground. Professional setting. We'll see if we can talk sense into them."

"And if you can't?"

"Then we get our own lawyer and prepare to fight." He said it with quiet certainty. "But hopefully it won't come to that."

Sophia wanted to believe him. She looked at the letter on the counter, at all those sharp legal words designed to intimidate and control. She thought about Ethan on that bus to Michigan, about his desperate calls from prep school bathrooms, about the fact that they were being treated like criminals for falling in love.

"This isn't fair," she said.

"No," her mother agreed. "It's not."

"But it's the reality we're dealing with," her father added. "So tonight, no contact with Ethan. Tomorrow, we meet with his parents. And then we figure out next steps."

"But—"

"No contact, Sophia. I mean it. If they're documenting your behavior, we can't give them more ammunition." Michael's voice was firm but not unkind. "I know it's hard. I know it feels impossible. But you need to trust us on this."

Sophia nodded, throat too tight to speak. She picked up her bag and headed for the stairs, leaving her parents in the kitchen with that awful letter. In her room, she closed the door and pulled out the burner phone. It sat in her palm, small and innocuous and dangerous all at once.

At 11:45 tonight, it would ring. And she couldn't answer.

She sat on her bed and cried.

Her parents returned from the meeting on Friday evening at 6:30 PM.

Sophia had been pacing her room for two hours, had checked her phone approximately four hundred times even though there was nothing to check. Tommy had tried to ask her about homework and she'd nearly bitten his head off, felt immediately guilty, apologized, then gone back to pacing.

When she heard the car in the driveway, she was downstairs in seconds.

Her parents came through the door looking exhausted. Her father's tie was loosened, her mother's expression drawn. They saw Sophia hovering in the hallway and her dad gestured to the living room.

"Sit. We need to talk."

The Chen family settled in their living room—parents on the couch, Sophia in the armchair, Tommy sent upstairs despite his protests. The late January sun was setting outside, casting long shadows through the windows. Sophia's hands were clenched in her lap.

"How bad?" she asked.

"Bad," her father said bluntly. "Robert Price is... he's not interested in compromise. He's interested in complete severance."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he wants you and Ethan to have zero contact. No calls, no texts, no emails, no social media interaction. Nothing." Linda's voice was strained. "He believes Ethan had a perfect trajectory before you became involved, and that your relationship is derailing his son's future."

"That's insane. Ethan makes his own choices—"

"We know," her father interrupted. "We told him that. Repeatedly. But Price doesn't see it that way. He sees his son as an investment—millions of dollars in training and coaching and opportunities—and you as the variable that's disrupting returns."

Sophia felt sick. "Did you meet Ethan's mom? Catherine?"

"Briefly." Her mother's expression softened slightly. "She seemed... conflicted. Didn't say much. But the few times she spoke, it was more sympathetic to the situation than Robert."

"Robert dominated the entire meeting," her father added. "Laid out his position: complete separation until graduation. After that, if you and Ethan still want to reconnect, that's your choice as legal adults. But until then, no contact."

"That's over a year away!" Sophia's voice rose. "We're supposed to just not talk for eighteen months?"

"That's what he's demanding." Michael pulled a business card from his pocket and set it on the coffee table. Same law firm letterhead. "And if you don't comply, they'll pursue legal action."

"What kind of legal action?"

"Restraining order first. Then complaints to every college you're applying to, suggesting you have behavioral issues and manipulative tendencies. Character assassination designed to tank your admissions prospects." Her father's voice was clinical, but she could hear the anger underneath. "They'll also go after anyone who helps you contact Ethan—friends, classmates, anyone. Threaten their families with legal action for enabling harassment."

"But it's not harassment! We're in a relationship!"

"Which they characterize as you manipulating their son." Linda's voice was gentle but firm. "I know it's not true. Your father knows it's not true. But they have expensive lawyers who can make it sound true in documents that college admissions officers will read."

Sophia felt like she was drowning. "So what do I do? Just... give up?"

Her parents looked at each other again. Then her father leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and spoke in a lower voice.

"Look. Officially, we're telling you: no contact. That's the requirement. That's what keeps you safe from legal consequences."

"But unofficially?" Sophia asked, catching the nuance.

"Unofficially," her mother said carefully, "we understand that you're seventeen years old and in love. We understand that demanding you completely cut off contact with someone you care about is unreasonable and cruel."

"What your mother is saying," her father continued, "is that if hypothetically you found ways to communicate that were discreet and untraceable, we wouldn't be in a position to know about it. And what we don't know, we can't be held responsible for."

Sophia stared at them. "Are you—are you telling me to sneak around?"

"We're telling you to be smart," Linda said firmly. "We're telling you that if you choose to maintain contact, it needs to be invisible. No phone records they can subpoena. No social media they can screenshot. No evidence that anyone could use against you."

"Because if they catch you," Michael added, "we can't protect you from the consequences. Legal action, college sabotage—all of it becomes real. Do you understand?"

"I understand." Sophia's voice was barely a whisper.

"One more thing." Her father picked up the business card, turned it over. On the back was handwritten a single line: "I'm sorry. Be careful. —C"

"C?" Sophia asked.

"Catherine Price," her mother said quietly. "While Robert was talking to the lawyers in the hallway, she slipped this to me. Then she looked at me and said, 'I was seventeen once too.'"

Sophia's throat closed. Ethan's mother. The woman she'd never officially met, but who'd just acknowledged—in the smallest, most dangerous way—that she understood. That she was sorry. That she couldn't help, but she wasn't completely against them.

"So," Sophia said after a moment, "officially, no contact. Unofficially, invisible contact. And if I get caught, it's on me."

"Yes," her father confirmed.

"And Robert Price is monitoring everything he can think of."

"Yes."

"Phone records, social media, probably email."

"Probably," her mother agreed.

"So I'd need to be... creative."

"Very creative," her father said. "And very careful."

Sophia nodded slowly. She was already thinking. Burner phones were good but not perfect—they created a trail if you weren't careful about where you bought them, where you called from. Social media was completely out. Regular email was monitored.

But there were other ways.

"Can I ask you something?" Sophia said.

"Of course."

"Do you think I'm making a mistake? Holding on to this relationship?"

Her parents exchanged another look. Then her mother reached over and took Sophia's hand.

"I think you're seventeen and in love, and that's not a mistake—it's being human," Linda said. "I think the situation is complicated and unfair and you're handling it with more grace than most adults would. I think Robert Price is trying to control something that can't be controlled, and that's going to backfire on him eventually."

"And I think," her father added, "that if Ethan Price is the kind of young man willing to stand up to his father for you, willing to be sent away rather than let you go, then he's probably worth fighting for. Just... fight smart. Okay?"

"Okay." Sophia squeezed her mother's hand. "Thank you. For understanding. For not making me choose between you and him."

"You're our daughter," Linda said simply. "We're on your side. Always."

They sat together in the dimming light, the weight of impossible choices settling over them all. Outside, January cold pressed against the windows. Inside, the Chen family made their quiet pact: official compliance and secret rebellion.

It wasn't perfect. But it was something.

By Monday morning, the gossip had evolved.

Sophia heard the new version in whispers as she walked through the hallway: restraining order, legal battle, lawyers involved. Some of it was accurate. Most of it was wildly exaggerated. All of it made her want to scream.

"Heard her parents are suing his parents."

"No, his parents are suing her parents."

"I heard there's actually a restraining order. Like, she can't contact him at all."

"That's so dramatic. It's just high school dating."

"Yeah, but his dad is like, super rich. Probably doesn't want some girl messing up his son's hockey career."

Sophia kept her head down and her expression neutral. Maya was waiting at her locker with a look that said she'd heard everything and was ready to throw down with anyone who said something to Sophia's face.

"People are idiots," Maya announced as Sophia approached.

"Accurate."

"Want me to start a rumor that you're actually a Russian spy and the legal stuff is international espionage cover?"

Despite everything, Sophia almost smiled. "Tempting. But probably won't help."

"Fair." Maya leaned against the locker next to Sophia's. "So what really happened? If you want to talk about it."

Sophia glanced around. The hallway was crowded, voices echoing off lockers and linoleum. Not here. She jerked her head toward the stairs and Maya followed. They climbed to the third floor, to the quiet corner by the old music rooms that nobody used anymore, and Sophia gave her the abbreviated version: cease and desist letter, parents' meeting, Robert Price's ultimatum, the visit to her house Sunday morning.

"Holy shit," Maya said when she finished. "That's actually terrifying."

"Yeah."

"So you're just supposed to... not talk to him? For a year and a half?"

"That's what they want."

"But you're not going to do that." Maya said it as statement, not question.

Sophia looked at her best friend—at the person who'd stood by her through all of this without judgment or conditions. "If I told you I needed help with something that could get complicated, would you help me?"

"Yes."

"Even if it might cause problems for you?"

"Sophia. Yes. Obviously yes. What do you need?"

"I need..." Sophia took a breath. "I need a way to communicate with Ethan that's invisible. That can't be traced or monitored or used as evidence. And I need people I can trust."

Maya was already nodding. "Encrypted messaging apps. Burner phones are good but they leave purchase records. Apps with end-to-end encryption, installed on devices that aren't linked to your real identity."

"How do I get a device not linked to my identity?"

"Leave that to me. I know people." At Sophia's surprised look, Maya grinned. "You're not the only one who knows how to be creative. Give me a week. I'll have something set up."

"Maya—"

"Don't. Don't thank me or apologize or any of that. You're my best friend. I've got your back." Maya's expression turned more serious. "But you need to be smart about this. If Price's lawyers are really monitoring things, they're probably looking at who you talk to, who might be helping you. We need to be careful."

"I know."

"Okay. Then let's be careful together."

They walked back downstairs, and Sophia felt fractionally less alone.

The solution came from an unexpected source.

Tuesday after school, Sophia was loading her bag into her car when Jordan Nakamura appeared, leaning against the vehicle next to hers.

Jordan was Ethan's teammate—former teammate—and one of the few hockey players who'd been genuinely nice to her from the start. He was tall, Japanese-Canadian, with dark hair and an easy smile that made him popular without being obnoxious about it. More importantly, he was friends with both Sophia and Ethan.

"Need to talk to you," Jordan said. "About Ethan."

Sophia's guard went up immediately. "If you're here to tell me to stay away from him—"

"I'm not." Jordan pushed off the car, hands in his pockets. "I'm here to offer to help."

"Help... how?"

"Can we walk? Less suspicious than standing in parking lot."

They walked to the athletic fields, empty now in the late afternoon cold. Jordan didn't speak until they were well away from the school building, their breath forming clouds in the freezing air.

"So," Jordan said finally. "Ethan called me last night. From the burner phone."

Sophia's heart jumped. "Is he okay?"

"He's surviving. But he's worried about you. Said his dad is escalating things legally, that you might not be able to talk to him anymore." Jordan glanced at her. "Said he needs to know you're okay, but he doesn't want to put you at risk by calling."

"I'm okay," Sophia said automatically. Then, more honestly: "I'm not okay. But I'm handling it."

"Yeah, well, that's what he figured you'd say." Jordan stopped walking, turned to face her fully. "Look. I'm Switzerland, okay? I'm friends with both of you. I don't care about the drama or the gossip or whatever Price's dad thinks about the situation. I care that two of my friends are being forced apart by someone's control issues."

"Okay..."

"So here's what I'm offering. I'm a neutral party. Price's lawyers can't claim I'm helping you violate anything because I'm not involved in your relationship—I'm just talking to my friends. Separately. As friends do."

Understanding dawned. "You want to be a go-between."

"Exactly. You can't email Ethan directly—monitored. You can't call him on regular phone—monitored. Burner phones are risky—purchase records, location data. But you can talk to me. And I can talk to him. And if, hypothetically, information gets passed along in those completely separate conversations..." Jordan shrugged. "That's just friends talking."

"Why would you risk this?" Sophia asked. "If they find out you're helping—"

"They won't find out. And even if they do, what are they going to do? I'm not family. I'm not involved. I'm just a guy who talks to his friends." Jordan's expression turned more serious. "Besides, what Price is doing is wrong. You guys didn't do anything except fall in love, and he's trying to control that with money and lawyers. That's bullshit."

Sophia felt tears prick her eyes. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. This has limits." Jordan pulled out his phone. "We need codes. Ways to communicate that don't sound suspicious if anyone sees messages. And we need to be careful about frequency—can't be texting constantly or it looks coordinated."

"Codes like what?"

"Like... if you need to tell him something important, text me about homework. Chemistry homework means you need him to call the burner phone. Physics homework means you need to send a message. English homework means emergency."

"And how does he get messages to me?"

"Same system reversed. I'll give him the codes. He'll text me about practice." Jordan was already typing notes into his phone. "Line drills means he needs to talk to you. Scrimmage means he has message to send. Game time means emergency."

"This is complicated."

"It has to be. Price isn't stupid. We need to make this look completely innocent." Jordan met her eyes. "You in?"

"I'm in." Sophia didn't even hesitate.

"Good. Give me your school email—that's public, they can't object to me having it. I'll never use it for actual communication, but it needs to be visible that we're connected. And give me your actual phone number so I can text you about 'homework.'"

They exchanged information. Then Jordan walked her through the code system once more, making sure she had it memorized. By the time they headed back to the parking lot, Sophia felt like she could breathe for the first time since the cease and desist letter arrived.

"One more thing," Jordan said as they reached their cars. "He wanted me to give you this."

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, small and worn like it had been carried carefully. Sophia took it, her hands trembling slightly.

"When did he give you this?"

"Mailed it to my house. Arrived yesterday." Jordan smiled slightly. "He's smart, your boyfriend. Figured out the mail system faster than the phone system."

Sophia clutched the paper. "Thank you, Jordan. Seriously. You're—this is—"

"Go. Read it in private. And text me about that chemistry homework later—pretty sure he's waiting to hear you got the message." Jordan got into his car, waved, and drove off.

Sophia got in her own car, locked the doors, and unfolded the paper with shaking hands.

The letter was three pages, written in Ethan's precise handwriting on what looked like notebook paper carefully torn out.

Sophia,

If you're reading this, it means Jordan came through. I'm trusting him because I don't have many options, and because he's one of the few people who treats you like a person instead of a scandal. If you're not ready to trust him, that's okay too. But I hope you are, because I need to tell you things, and this seems like the safest way.

First: I'm sorry. I'm sorry my father is doing this. I'm sorry you have to deal with legal threats and lawyers and all of this insanity when all we did was fall in love. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from this, couldn't stop it, can't fix it.

Second: Don't give up on us. I know that sounds selfish when you're the one dealing with consequences at home. I know you're the one facing your parents' disappointment and school gossip and cease and desist letters. I know it would be easier for you to walk away and tell everyone I'm not worth the trouble.

But I'm asking you not to. I'm asking you to hold on. Because I'm holding on too, and I need to know you're there on the other end of this distance.

Here's what life is like in Michigan: sterile, controlled, suffocating. The prep school is nice on the surface—good facilities, smart teachers, high-level hockey program. But everything is monitored. Room checks, schedule adherence, academic performance metrics, athletic benchmarks. My roommate reports to his dad about my behavior, and his dad probably reports to my dad. I can't go anywhere without permission. Can't buy anything without it showing up on accounts my parents can access. Can't call anyone without it being logged.

I got the burner phone by asking Jordan to mail me cash, then buying it during weekend "earned recreation time" with cash. Paid a senior here to buy it for me so my face wasn't on any store cameras. Had to think like a spy just to talk to you.

The phone got confiscated last week. I was late to room check because I was calling you from the bathroom, and they searched my stuff the next day. Gave me three days of in-school suspension, loss of weekend privileges, and interrogation about who I was calling. I told them friend from Winnipeg. They didn't believe me but couldn't prove otherwise.

So now I have no phone at all. School-issued tablet that's monitored for all communications. Which is why I'm writing this by hand in physics class, hiding it between notebook pages, and will mail it to Jordan's house because I can send personal mail if it goes through the school office (they check, but they don't read everything—too much volume).

I'm telling you all this not to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you so you understand: this is the cost of not letting you go. My father wanted me to cut you out, move on, focus on hockey. I refused. So this is the consequence—this surveillance, this control, this distance. And I'd make the same choice again.

Because here's what they don't understand: you're not a distraction from my life. You're part of what makes my life make sense. Before you, I was just going through motions. Good grades because that's what I was supposed to get. Good hockey because that's what I was supposed to play. But no idea why I was doing any of it.

You asked me questions. You made me think. You challenged me to figure out what I actually wanted instead of what everyone told me to want. And what I want is to be someone who matters to people who matter to me. I want to be someone who solves problems and understands the world and makes things better. I want to be someone who chooses love even when it's hard.

I want to be someone who deserves you.

The physics teacher here, Dr. Morrison, is brilliant. We talked about quantum mechanics yesterday—wave-particle duality, observer effect, all this stuff about how observation changes reality. And I thought about you. About how you observe the world with this precise, curious intensity. How you make me see things I would have missed. How you change my reality just by being in it.

I miss you. I miss talking to you about everything and nothing. I miss making you laugh. I miss the way you explain science like you're sharing secrets about the universe. I miss watching you play badminton with that intense focus that makes you unstoppable. I miss kissing you. God, I miss kissing you.

But I can wait. I can survive this surveillance and these months of separation. I can handle my father's control and this clinical prep school existence. I can do all of it as long as I know you're there. As long as I know this isn't over.

So don't let it be over. Please.

Use Jordan if you need to. Use whatever system works. I'll find ways to reach you—letters like this, maybe other methods I haven't thought of yet. We'll be smarter than they are. More creative. More determined.

Because they can control phones and email and where I live and who I talk to. But they can't control how I feel. They can't make me stop loving you. And they can't win if we refuse to let them.

I have to go—class is ending and I need to hide this before my roommate sees. I'll get it mailed today. By the time you read it, it'll be early February. Which means we're one month closer to summer. One month closer to being in the same state again. One month closer to the end of junior year.

We can do this. I know we can.

I love you. That's the only thing I'm sure of anymore.

—E

P.S. - If you send letters back through Jordan, use codes we'd understand but no one else would. Astronomy terms, maybe? Call me "Cygnus" and yourself "Lyra"—constellation names from that night in October. That way if anyone intercepts it, it just looks like school project notes.

Sophia read the letter three times sitting in her car in the school parking lot. By the third reading, she was crying too hard to see the words clearly.

He was suffering. Being watched and controlled and isolated. And he was still fighting for them.

She pulled out her regular phone and texted Jordan: Got the chemistry homework. Thanks for the help.

Three minutes later: Cool. Let me know if you need more help with those problem sets.

Translation: Message received. System working.

Sophia wiped her eyes, started her car, and drove home. In her room, she pulled out clean notebook paper and began to write.

Cygnus,

Your message about the quantum mechanics problem set was really helpful...

She wrote for an hour, telling him about her parents' tacit permission to be invisible, about school and badminton and the way she was holding together. She wrote about Maya's fierce loyalty and how Coach Kim seemed to understand without being told. She wrote about the cease and desist letter and her own fear, but also her determination.

She wrote about love in the language of physics and astronomy, calling herself Lyra and him Cygnus, writing about stellar distances and gravitational pulls and the way light travels across impossible space to reach waiting eyes.

At the end, she wrote: The observer effect is real. You change my reality too. Keep observing. Keep existing. Keep being you. I'm here. I'm holding on. We're going to make it.

—Lyra

She folded it carefully, put it in an envelope addressed to Jordan Nakamura, and mailed it before she could second-guess herself.

That night at 11:45, Sophia's burner phone didn't ring.

She lay in the dark, missing him, holding his letter like a talisman.

But she wasn't alone anymore. She had a system. She had help. She had his words on paper saying don't let it be over.

And she wouldn't.

They couldn't stop her from loving him. They couldn't stop her from fighting.

They could make it hard. They could make it complicated. They could throw lawyers and surveillance and distance at them.

But they couldn't win.

Not if she refused to let them.

Next: Chapter 3 - "Breaking Point"

End of Chapter 2

Approximately 5,400 words

Chapter 3: CHAPTER 3: BREAKING POINT

The crack appeared on a Wednesday morning in mid-February.

Sophia sat at her desk in calculus, staring at a test she couldn't complete. The numbers swam on the page—derivatives of inverse trigonometric functions, problems she could normally solve in her sleep. But today her brain refused to cooperate. The equations looked like foreign language, symbols without meaning.

Mrs. Patterson walked between desks, heels clicking on linoleum. Sophia tried to focus. Wrote out the first step of problem seven, then stopped. What came next? Chain rule? Product rule? The knowledge was there somewhere in her exhausted mind but she couldn't access it.

"Ten minutes remaining."

Sophia looked at her paper. Four problems blank. Three more with only partial work. Disaster. She'd never failed a test in her life. Never even come close.

Her hand shook. She put down her pencil and pressed her palms flat against the desk. Breathe. Just breathe.

But breathing felt hard. Like the air wasn't reaching her lungs properly. Like there was a weight on her chest preventing full expansion.

"Five minutes."

Panic rising. Not now. Not here. Had to finish this test. Had to prove she was still capable, still excellent, still—

She picked up her pencil again, forced herself to write. Numbers and symbols that might be correct, might be complete nonsense. She couldn't tell anymore.

"Time. Pencils down."

Sophia set her pencil down. Mrs. Patterson collected tests. When she reached Sophia's desk, she paused. Glanced at the paper. Her expression flickered with concern.

"Sophia? Can you stay after class for a moment?"

Sophia nodded. Didn't trust her voice.

The rest of the class filtered out. Maya lingered in the doorway, questioning. Sophia shook her head. Maya left reluctantly.

When the classroom was empty, Mrs. Patterson sat on the edge of her desk.

"Want to tell me what's going on?"

"I'm fine."

"You left four problems blank and your work on the others is—" Mrs. Patterson chose her words carefully. "Uncharacteristic. You're usually my most consistent student."

"I just— I couldn't focus today. Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I'm not angry. I'm concerned." Mrs. Patterson tilted her head. "You look exhausted. Are you sleeping?"

Not really. Not more than four or five hours a night, broken by stress dreams and waking at 3 AM with racing thoughts. But Sophia couldn't say that.

"I'm fine."

"Sophia, I'm going to let you retake this test next week. But I need you to talk to someone—school counselor, your parents, someone. Because you're clearly not fine and I can't help if you won't let me."

Sophia's throat went tight. The kindness was worse than judgment would have been. She managed to nod, grabbed her bag, fled the classroom before the tears could start.

She made it to the second-floor bathroom before breaking completely.

The bathroom was empty—small mercy in a day of mounting disasters. Sophia locked herself in the farthest stall, sat on the closed toilet lid, let the sobs come.

She'd held it together for three weeks. Three weeks of legal threats and secret letters and maintaining perfect composure at school and home. Three weeks of late-night messages through Jordan and careful codes and constant vigilance. Three weeks of missing Ethan so intensely it was physical pain, while pretending to be fine.

And now she couldn't even pass a calculus test.

The sobs were ugly and wrenching, the kind that hurt your ribs and made you gasp for air. She pressed her hands over her mouth, trying to muffle the sound. Students were in class now but passing period was in twenty minutes. Someone would come in eventually.

She didn't know how long she cried. Long enough that her eyes were swollen and her throat raw. Long enough that she missed the beginning of her free period. Long enough that she didn't hear the bathroom door open or footsteps approaching until someone knocked gently on the stall door.

"Sophia?"

Maya's voice. Of course.

"Go away."

"Not a chance. Open up."

"Maya—"

"I can stand here all day. Or you can open the door and let your best friend help. Your choice."

Sophia unlocked the stall. Maya took one look at her face and pulled her into a fierce hug.

"Oh, babe. Come on."

She guided Sophia to the sink, wet paper towels with cold water, pressed them gently to Sophia's eyes. The cold was shocking and grounding. Sophia took shaky breaths, slowly coming back to herself.

"What happened?" Maya asked quietly.

"Failed calculus test. Couldn't think. Brain just— stopped."

"That's not failure. That's exhaustion." Maya kept the cool towels on Sophia's eyes. "You've been running on empty for weeks. Something had to give."

"I can't afford for something to give. I have to be perfect. I have to prove I didn't throw away my future for—" Sophia's voice cracked.

"For what? For love? For choosing yourself?" Maya pulled the towels away and made Sophia look at her. "You didn't throw away anything. You made a hard choice. That's different."

"Is it? Because MIT is gone. Ethan's in Michigan. His dad has lawyers threatening me. My parents are disappointed even though they won't say it. And I can't even—" Sophia couldn't finish.

"Stop." Maya's voice was sharp. "Stop doing that. Stop catastrophizing. One test isn't your entire future. And MIT isn't the only school that matters."

"But it was the dream. The plan. Everything I'd worked for—"

"Yeah, and plans change. Dreams evolve. That's allowed." Maya's expression softened. "You're seventeen. You're supposed to be figuring things out, not having your entire life mapped to the millimeter."

Sophia closed her eyes. "I'm so tired, Maya."

"I know."

"I'm tired of pretending I'm okay. Tired of codes and secret letters and checking my phone every five minutes. Tired of my parents looking at me like I'm fragile. Tired of people whispering. Tired of missing him so much I can barely—" She couldn't finish.

"Then stop pretending." Maya squeezed her shoulders. "With me, at least. You're allowed to not be okay. You're allowed to break. That's what best friends are for—catching you when you fall."

"What if I can't get back up?"

"You will. Because you're the strongest person I know. But you need to let yourself be human first." Maya checked her phone. "We have forty minutes of free period left. Let's get out of here."

"Where?"

"Anywhere but here. Come on."

They ended up at the park by the Red River, sitting in Maya's car with the heat running and indie music playing softly. The river: frozen solid, white and windswept, stretching between bare trees. February in Winnipeg was a particular kind of desolate—all the beauty of winter stripped away, leaving only cold and waiting.

Maya had brought emergency chocolate from her locker. Sophia ate it mechanically. The sweetness grounding.

"Okay," Maya said after a while. "Real talk. How bad is it really?"

Sophia considered lying, then decided she was too exhausted. "I don't know if we can survive this. The distance, the surveillance, the legal stuff. I don't know if love is supposed to be this hard."

"Love is supposed to be whatever it is. Sometimes it's easy. Sometimes it's work. Sometimes it's both." Maya unwrapped her own chocolate. "But the hard part isn't the love. The hard part is his dad being a controlling asshole."

"Same result though. We're still 800 miles apart. Still can't talk freely. Still facing another year of this before we're legal adults."

"So you're thinking of ending it?"

"I don't know what I'm thinking." Sophia's voice was small. "I just know I can't keep breaking down in bathrooms."

"Then don't. Let yourself actually feel things instead of bottling them up until they explode." Maya turned in her seat to face Sophia fully. "Look. I'm going to say something and you're not going to like it. But I'm saying it because I love you and someone needs to."

"Okay..."

"You're trying to be perfect. Perfect student, perfect daughter, perfect girlfriend. You're trying to prove to everyone—your parents, the gossips, maybe yourself—that choosing Ethan wasn't a mistake by being flawless in every other way. But dude, that's impossible. And trying to do the impossible is what's breaking you."

Sophia wanted to argue. Couldn't. Because Maya was right.

"So what do I do?"

"You let yourself be a person who's going through hard shit. You accept help. You lower your impossible standards. You tell people when you're struggling instead of pretending until you crack." Maya's voice gentled. "And you stop measuring your worth by whether you're perfect."

"But if I'm not perfect, then what was the point? If I'm not excellent at everything else, then what I gave up—"

"Sophia. Listen. What you gave up was one school. One acceptance. That's not your entire worth or your entire future. You're still brilliant. You're still going to get into amazing schools. You're still going to do incredible things. MIT was a possibility. It wasn't your entire identity."

"Feels like it was."

"Because you're exhausted and in crisis. But it wasn't." Maya pulled out her phone, started typing. "Dr. Reeves asked me to recruit you for Science Olympiad. I was going to wait but I think you need this now."

"Science Olympiad?"

"Regional competition next week in Minneapolis. Physics, chemistry, biology events. I'm on the team. We need someone strong in physics and you're the best we've got." Maya showed her phone screen: email from Dr. Reeves, the physics teacher, specifically asking about Sophia's interest.

"I can't add another thing—"

"It's not adding something. It's refocusing energy you're already spending on academics into problems you can solve instead of catastrophes you can't." Maya's expression was earnest. "Plus it's next Saturday. Minneapolis. Which is where badminton tournament is next Sunday. Your coach already asked about competing, right?"

Sophia had forgotten about that. Coach Kim had mentioned the Minneapolis Invitational—good warmup for nationals in March. She'd said yes without really thinking about it.

"Yeah. I'm competing Sunday."

"So Science Olympiad Saturday, badminton Sunday. Full weekend of focusing on things you're good at, with me there to support. What do you say?"

It sounded exhausting and perfect in equal measure. Structure. Purpose. Problems with solutions.

"Okay." Sophia heard herself say. "I'll do it."

"Yeah?" Maya's face lit up.

"Yeah. But I need to tell you something first." Sophia took a breath. "Jordan got another letter from Ethan this week."

"And?"

"And Ethan knows about Minneapolis. The competition, the tournament. He says—" She couldn't finish.

"He says what?"

"He says he has a plan. For Valentine's Day weekend."

Maya's eyes widened. "Valentine's Day is February 14th. That's next Saturday."

"I know."

"Minneapolis is eight hours from Michigan."

"I know."

"He can't possibly—"

"He says he has a plan." Sophia pulled out the latest letter from her bag, handed it to Maya. "Read it."

Maya read. Her expression cycling through surprise, concern, and something like admiration.

Lyra,

The distance between us is eight hours by car, but I calculated it: only 640 miles. In stellar terms, that's nothing—basically the same star system. And Valentine's Day is a Saturday this year. Science Olympiad and badminton invitational in Minneapolis. I know because Jordan told me about your competitions.

I know you're thinking: impossible. Prep school won't let me leave. Surveillance is constant. Dad tracks everything.

But here's the thing about surveillance—it has patterns. Blind spots. And I've been studying them. Weekend activities require permission but I've built up goodwill. If I say family emergency, one weekend pass is possible. Eight hours to Minneapolis, eight hours back. Sixteen hours total. If I leave Friday night, arrive early Saturday morning, I could have most of the day. See your competition. Maybe even see you.

I know it's risky. I know if they find out, consequences will be severe. But Lyra—I need to see you. Not just hear your voice or read your words. I need to see your face and hold your hand and know this is real. Know we're surviving this.

I can't promise it'll work. But I'm going to try.

If you don't want me to—if it's too dangerous or you're not ready—send me letter that says "constellation map incorrect." I'll understand. I'll stay away.

But if you want me to try, send letter that says "orbital calculations look promising." And I'll move heaven and earth to be there.

—Cygnus

"Oh my God." Maya breathed. "He's going to drive eight hours to see you for what, a few hours?"

"Maybe. If it works. If I tell him to try."

"Are you going to tell him to try?"

Sophia looked out at the frozen river. At the desolate beauty of February in a city that knew how to survive winter. She thought about breaking down in calculus class. She thought about his letter saying I need to know this is real. She thought about the fact that love was supposed to be whatever it was, including hard, including impossible, including worth fighting for.

"Yeah." She said. "I'm going to tell him to try."

Maya whooped, startling her. "You're going to see him! Actual seeing, not just letters!"

"If it works. If he can get away. If we don't get caught—"

"We won't get caught. We'll be smart. Strategic. And I'll be there to help." Maya was already planning. Sophia could see it in her eyes. "Science Olympiad is Saturday morning through early afternoon. Badminton tournament is Saturday evening through Sunday. If he comes Saturday, you'll have afternoon between events. We can make this work."

"What if his dad finds out?"

"Then we deal with it. But Sophia—don't you want to see him? Actually see him?"

Sophia closed her eyes. God, yes. She wanted it more than she wanted perfect test scores or MIT acceptances or any of it. She wanted to see his face in person, not just in memory. Wanted to hear his voice not through a phone but right in front of her. Wanted to touch him and be real to each other instead of just words on paper.

"I want it so much it terrifies me."

"Then let's be terrified together. And let's make it happen." Maya started the car. "Come on. We're skipping the rest of the day. I'm taking you home, you're going to sleep for actual hours, and then you're going to write that letter telling him yes."

"Maya—"

"Nope. No arguing. Best friend executive decision. You need rest, then you need hope. In that order."

Sophia didn't argue. She let Maya drive her home, let her explain to Sophia's mom that she'd had a rough day and needed rest. Her mom—bless her—asked no questions. Just made tea and sent Sophia to bed.

Sophia slept for four hours straight and woke feeling slightly less like she was drowning.

She wrote the letter that evening:

Cygnus,

Orbital calculations look promising. I'll be there. Be careful. Be smart. But come.

—Lyra

She mailed it the next day.

And then she waited.

Science Olympiad practice became Sophia's salvation.

Dr. Reeves ran the team with cheerful intensity, organizing students into specialized events based on their strengths. Sophia: physics events. Machines, Trajectory, and Circuit Lab. Maya: Computer Science and Code Busters.

The team met after school three days a week. They were a nerdy bunch—twelve students ranging from freshmen to seniors, all intensely smart and unconcerned with social hierarchies. No one asked Sophia about her relationship drama. No one whispered about legal threats. They just cared whether she could calculate projectile motion under air resistance and explain mechanical advantage.

It was exactly what she needed.

"Okay," Dr. Reeves said during Thursday practice. "Trajectory competition Saturday. Sophia, you'll be paired with Marcus Chen." He grinned at the coincidence of the shared surname. "No relation?"

"Not unless I have a secret brother." Sophia said, and Marcus laughed.

Marcus Chen: sophomore, small and quick with perpetually messy hair and a calculator watch he wore unironically. He reminded Sophia of Ethan, actually—same intensity about problem-solving, same tendency to get excited about physics concepts.

They spent an hour calibrating their catapult, testing angles and tensions. The goal: hit a target at unknown distance with a ping-pong ball. Points for accuracy, bonus for speed.

"Okay, so if we assume initial velocity of 12 meters per second at 45-degree angle, and we account for air resistance coefficient of 0.4..." Marcus was scribbling equations.

"But we can't assume resistance coefficient. Air density varies with humidity and temperature. Minneapolis in February will be different from here."

"True. So we need to build in adjustability. Variable tension on the elastic?"

"And calibration system we can run on-site before competition."

They worked together with the ease of people who spoke the same language. By the end of practice, their catapult was hitting targets with 85% accuracy.

"Nice work." Dr. Reeves said, inspecting their setup. "You two are going to crush it in Minneapolis."

Minneapolis. Where Ethan might be. Where she might actually see him.

The thought made her hands shake. Marcus noticed, steadied the catapult.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired."

"Fair. But hey—thanks for joining team. Maya said you needed convincing."

"Maya's persuasive."

"She's scary when she wants something. But she's right about you being good at this." Marcus grinned. "Plus it's fun, right? Just solving problems. No drama."

"No drama. Just physics."

That night, Jordan texted: Hey, that chemistry homework from last week? Friend of mine confirmed the calculations work out. Should happen Saturday morning.

Sophia stared at the message. Translation: Ethan confirmed. He's coming Saturday morning.

She texted back: Thanks for checking. Good to know.

Then she sat on her bed and tried to slow her racing heart.

One week. Seven days until she'd see him.

Seven days to not fall apart.

Friday, five days before Minneapolis, Sophia had a breakthrough.

She retook the calculus test at lunch—Mrs. Patterson's offer of a do-over. This time, her mind cooperated. The equations made sense again. She solved every problem with the confidence of someone who remembered who she was.

She turned it in with ten minutes to spare. Mrs. Patterson graded it during her planning period and called Sophia back after school.

"Ninety-six percent." Mrs. Patterson said, showing her the paper. "This is the Sophia I know."

"Thank you for letting me retake it."

"Thank you for getting whatever rest you needed." Mrs. Patterson's expression was knowing. "You look better. Less exhausted."

"I am. A little." Sophia hesitated. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"How do you know when you're making a mistake versus when you're just doing something hard?"

Mrs. Patterson considered this. "Mistakes feel wrong even when they're easy. Hard things feel right even when they're difficult. Why?"

"Just trying to figure something out."

"Does it feel right? The thing you're trying to figure out?"

Sophia thought about Ethan's letters. About the countdown to Saturday. About the way she smiled when Jordan passed her coded messages. "Yeah. It feels right."

"Then it's probably just hard. And hard is worth it, usually." Mrs. Patterson smiled. "Go on. Get to practice or wherever you need to be."

Badminton practice was intense. Coach Kim preparing them for Minneapolis, running drills on court speed and shot variation.

"Chen, you're fast but you're not reading your opponent. Watch their body language. Weight shift tells you direction before they hit."

Sophia focused. Watched Sarah's feet, her shoulders, the angle of her racket. Started anticipating shots before they happened. Started winning points she would have lost a month ago.

"Better." Coach Kim approved. "Remember this in Minneapolis. Tournament field will be strong. You need every advantage."

After practice, Sophia stayed to work on serves. Coach Kim came over, racket bag slung over her shoulder.

"You're playing better this week. Something changed."

"Got some sleep. Joined Science Olympiad. Gave myself something to focus on besides—" Sophia trailed off.

"Besides long-distance relationship with boy whose father doesn't approve?" Coach Kim's voice was dry but not unkind.

Sophia stared. "How did you—"

"I read. Also I'm not deaf. Athletes gossip too." Coach Kim adjusted her bag. "For what it's worth, I think you're handling it well. Could have fallen apart. Didn't. That's character."

"Thank you, Coach."

"Just don't let it make you reckless. On court or in life." Coach Kim's look was pointed. "Focus is good. Distraction is dangerous. Know the difference."

She left before Sophia could respond. But the message was clear: Coach Kim knew something was happening in Minneapolis. And she was warning Sophia to be careful.

Sophia would be careful. But she was also going to see Ethan.

Some risks were worth taking.

The weekend before Minneapolis passed in a blur of preparation and anticipation.

Sophia finalized Science Olympiad materials with Marcus. They packed their catapult carefully, tested it one final time, ran through calculations until they could do them in their sleep.

She also prepared for badminton—checked her equipment, packed her competition gear, reviewed tournament brackets. The Minneapolis Invitational was mid-tier competition, good players but not national-level intensity. She should be able to medal if she played smart.

And through it all, she thought about Saturday. About the moment when she'd look up and see him. About what they'd say. About how much time they'd actually have.

Jordan delivered one more letter Thursday night:

Lyra,

Told prep school my aunt in Minneapolis is sick—family emergency. They cleared me for weekend leave Friday evening through Sunday morning. Bus schedule has me arriving Minneapolis 6 AM Saturday.

Science Olympiad starts 9 AM at convention center. I'll find you. Don't look for me—I'll look for you. Less obvious that way.

After your event ends, if you can get away for even an hour, I'll take it. I have to be on return bus by 7 PM Saturday night. So we have about ten hours in the same city, maybe three where we can actually be together.

Three hours. That's it. But it's everything.

Be careful. Be smart. I love you.

—Cygnus

Three hours. After six weeks apart, three hours felt like both forever and nothing.

Sophia wrote back:

Cygnus,

Science Olympiad runs 9 AM - 2 PM. Badminton starts 6 PM. Between is ours. I'll find way to get free. Maya will help.

Three hours is enough. Three hours is everything.

See you Saturday. I love you.

—Lyra

Friday morning, the Science Olympiad team loaded into school vans for the drive to Minneapolis. Eight hours on the road, arriving late evening, checking into host hotel. Competition tomorrow, then drive home Sunday.

Sophia's parents had signed the permission form, had helped her pack. Her dad pulled her aside before she left.

"Be smart this weekend."

"I will be."

"I know you're going to see him. Don't tell me details. But be smart."

She hugged him hard. Grateful he understood. Grateful he was letting her make this choice.

The drive was long but good. Maya kept Sophia entertained with increasingly elaborate theories about quantum computing. Marcus and the other team members played road trip games. Dr. Reeves drove with patient good humor, occasionally contributing science facts that sparked debates.

They arrived in Minneapolis at 8:30 PM, checked into the hotel, ordered pizza, settled in for final preparation. Sophia shared a room with Maya. After lights out they lay in their respective beds in the dark.

"You okay?" Maya asked.

"Terrified."

"Yeah?"

"What if he can't get away? What if we get caught? What if—"

"Sophia. Breathe. Whatever happens tomorrow, we handle it. Together."

"Together."

She barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes she imagined scenarios: seeing him across the convention center, stolen moments in quiet corners, his arms around her for the first time in six weeks.

Or alternatively: his dad showing up, lawyers appearing, everything crashing down.

At 5:30 AM, she gave up on sleep. Showered. Dressed in Science Olympiad team shirt and jeans. Did her hair, minimal makeup, trying to look normal. Hands shaking the whole time.

Maya was already dressed, looking at her phone.

"Jordan texted. Bus arrived on time. He's there."

Sophia's heart stopped. "Where?"

"Convention center. Waiting."

"Oh God."

"Hey." Maya crossed to her, took her shoulders. "You're going to be fine. You're going to compete, you're going to be brilliant, and then you're going to see your boyfriend. In that order. Okay?"

"Okay."

They went downstairs to breakfast with the team. Sophia ate mechanically, not tasting anything. Marcus reviewing equations. Dr. Reeves giving final pep talk.

At 8:30 AM, they loaded into vans and drove to the convention center.

And Sophia's countdown reached zero.

Next: Chapter 4 - "Valentine's Reunion"

End of Chapter 3

Approximately 5,000 words

Chapter 4: CHAPTER 4: VALENTINE'S REUNION

The Minneapolis Convention Center smelled like industrial coffee and floor polish. Chaos with a soundtrack—rolling equipment cases on concrete, hundreds of competing conversations echoing off glass walls, someone's phone alarm going off in a backpack somewhere.

Three simultaneous competitions occupied different floors: Science Olympiad in the basement conference rooms, robotics tournament on the main floor, badminton in the arena upstairs. Hundreds of students, coaches, and parents flowing through hallways with the organized confusion of academic competition day.

Sophia's team came through the main entrance at 8:45, equipment bags and nervous energy making them louder than usual. Dr. Reeves checked them in, collected schedules, organized their scattered focus into something resembling readiness.

"Trajectory competition starts at 10:30," he told Sophia and Marcus. "You have your event at 11 AM in Room B-7. Circuit Lab at 1:15 PM. Stay hydrated, stay focused, and remember—this is supposed to be fun."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Fun."

"Fun-adjacent," Dr. Reeves amended with a grin. "Go set up. You have forty-five minutes."

The basement conference rooms: fluorescent-lit, windowless, filled with folding tables and that particular smell school buildings have everywhere—old textbooks, chemical cleaning products, teenage anxiety. Teams clustered by school, setting up equipment, running final tests. Sophia and Marcus found their assigned table, began unpacking their catapult.

Sophia's hands were steady assembling the base, attaching the elastic, calibrating the release mechanism. This was familiar. This she could control. The physics of trajectory, the mathematics of projectile motion, the precision of engineering—solid and knowable.

Unlike everything else right now.

"Okay, so air resistance coefficient," Marcus said, pulling out their calculator. "Temperature's probably 21 Celsius, humidity feels low..."

They worked together, falling into the rhythm they'd built during practice. Test launches. Measurements. Tiny adjustments. Their catapult was performing—consistent velocity, predictable arc. They'd do well today.

Sophia was calculating the third test angle when she felt it.

That shift in the air. Like the temperature dropped two degrees or the room got quieter except it didn't. Some part of her brain—the part that had been tuned to his frequency since October—registered his presence before she consciously processed it.

She looked up.

Ethan Price stood in the doorway.

Time did that thing. Everything else went soft-focus. He was there. Solid and real. Jeans, dark blue hoodie, baseball cap pulled low. Scanning the room, methodical. When his eyes found her they stopped.

He took a breath. His expression shifted from tense to—relief, longing, something she felt in her chest. He didn't smile—too many people, too risky—but his eyes said everything.

Hi. I'm here. I made it. You're real.

Thirty feet of conference room between them and she couldn't breathe. The distance of six weeks collapsed into nothing.

"Sophia?" Marcus's voice. "You good?"

"Yeah." She forced herself back to the catapult. Her hands were shaking. "Yeah, sorry. Thought I—"

"So this launch angle, I think we should—"

But she wasn't listening anymore. Her entire awareness tracked him moving along the back wall, staying out of the main traffic, finding a position where he could watch without drawing attention. Visitor pass clipped to his hoodie—probably said he was there to observe, thinking about joining Science Olympiad next year, something plausible and boring.

He'd thought this through. Planned.

And he was here.

"Five minutes to competition start!" A judge's voice boomed.

Sophia focused. She had a competition to win. Then time. Three hours, if his letter was accurate. Three hours in the same city, same building.

She could last through one physics competition.

Trajectory went perfectly.

She and Marcus synchronized, efficient, confident. Measured the target distance in seconds, calculated optimal trajectory, adjusted their catapult with practiced precision. First launch: 8.2 centimeters from center. Second launch: 3.1 centimeters. Third launch: dead center.

"Churchill High scores 27 points!" The judge's voice echoed. "Current tournament leader!"

Marcus high-fived her, grinning. Other teams applauded politely, some with jealous side-eyes. The satisfaction of competence washed through her—problems solved correctly, targets hit under pressure. This was who she was.

She glanced at the back wall. Ethan. Still there. Leaning with apparent casualness, hands shoved deep in his pockets. But tension in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. He'd watched the whole thing.

"Circuit Lab's in an hour," Marcus said, packing up their catapult. "Want to grab food?"

"You go. I need to—" Sophia scrambled for excuse. "Bathroom. Then I'll meet you."

"Cool. Text if you can't find it."

Marcus headed out with the other team members. Dr. Reeves was talking to judges, reviewing scores. Maya appeared at Sophia's elbow, having finished her Code Busters event.

"He's here," Maya whispered.

"I know."

"Back wall. Blue hoodie. Has been watching you like—"

"Maya—"

"Go. You have an hour before next event. I'll cover with Dr. Reeves." Maya squeezed her arm. "Go."

Sophia went.

She walked out of the conference room trying to look casual—bathroom, food court, anywhere that wasn't following the boy in the blue hoodie. Didn't look back to see if he was following. Just walked.

The hallway: crowded with students between events. Sophia navigated through them, heart pounding, heading toward the east stairwell that looked less trafficked. Climbed to the ground floor, kept walking, found an alcove near the vending machines. Relatively quiet.

She stopped. Waited. Counted her breaths.

Ten seconds. Twenty.

Footsteps behind her.

She turned.

Ethan stopped ten feet away. Neither of them moved. Just looked at each other—really looked, taking in every detail photos and memories couldn't quite capture. He looked tired. Shadows under his eyes, tension around his mouth. But solid, real, here.

"Hi."

She couldn't make her voice work right. "—hi."

"You were—" He stops, starts again. "That third shot. Perfect calculation."

"Math doesn't lie."

"No. It doesn't." A step closer. Then another. "Can I—is it safe to—"

"Not here." Sophia glanced around. Too many people. A door marked "Equipment Storage - Staff Only." Probably locked, but—

It wasn't. Small miracles.

They slipped inside. Sophia locked the door behind them. The room was small, filled with folding chairs and spare podiums and the forgotten debris of countless conventions. A single window high on one wall let in gray February light. And they were alone.

Completely, finally alone.

Ethan pulled off his baseball cap, ran a hand through his hair. "God, it's good to see you."

"How are you even—" Sophia's voice shook. "Eight hours on a bus, lying to prep school—"

"Had to. Couldn't do another week of letters and codes and missing you." He took a step toward her. "Had to know this is real. That you're—"

She closed the distance and kissed him.

His arms came around her instantly, pulling her against him like she might disappear if he didn't hold tight enough. She gripped his hoodie, kissed him with six weeks of longing and desperation. He was solid and here and hers.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she realized she was crying.

"Hey—" Ethan wiped her tears with his thumbs. "Hey, don't—"

"Can't help it. You're here. You actually—"

"Told you I would." He rested his forehead against hers. "Told you I'd find a way."

They stood like that. Just breathing together, hands tangled in fabric and hair, reassuring themselves through touch that this wasn't another dream or letter. This was real.

"Tell me everything," Sophia said finally.

They sat on the floor, backs against the wall, shoulders pressed together. Ethan talked in low, urgent tones. Prep school reality: the surveillance somehow worse than his letters made it sound. The roommate who'd been moved after reporting Ethan's burner phone call. The new roommate who was sullen but minded his own business. The hockey—excellent, exhausting. The academics—rigorous, soulless. The constant feeling of being watched.

"But the worst part is that it's working. The hockey program, I mean. I'm getting better. Faster, stronger, smarter about the game. Coaches think I could get Division I scholarship offers by senior year." His voice went flat. "So my dad's strategy is succeeding. Ship me away, force focus, eliminate distractions. All working exactly how he planned."

"Except for the part where you're miserable."

"Except for that." A smile without humor. "But he doesn't care about that part. Just results."

"Have you talked to him? Since you left?"

"Weekly check-in calls. Fifteen minutes. He asks about metrics—practice stats, academic grades, coach feedback." Ethan's jaw tightened. "Never asks how I'm doing. Never asks if I'm happy. It's like talking to a performance review algorithm."

Sophia took his hand, laced their fingers together. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. This is his choice, not yours. You didn't make him this way."

"But I'm the reason he's punishing you."

"No. His need for control is the reason. You're just the thing he can't control." Ethan lifted their joined hands, kissed her knuckles. "And I'm glad. I don't want him to control this. This is mine. Ours."

They sat in comfortable silence. Then Sophia told him her side—the cease and desist letter, her parents' careful support, Jordan's help, Maya's fierce loyalty. The breakdown in calculus class. Science Olympiad saving her. Coach Kim's knowing looks and Tyler's continued smug judgment.

"And Becca? Still not talking to you?"

"Still not. I think she's hurt. Like she thinks I chose you over our friendship." Sophia considered. "Which isn't true, but I understand why it feels that way to her."

"You miss her."

"Yeah. I do. But I'd make the same choice."

"That's what I told my dad. When he was sending me to Michigan. He said I was throwing away opportunities for a girl. I told him I wasn't throwing away anything—I was choosing what mattered." Ethan's voice was quiet but certain. "You matter more than his plans. More than hockey. More than any of it."

"Hockey matters to you though. You said yourself you're getting better—"

"I am. And I like it. Playing at this level, the challenge." He turned to face her fully. "But Soph—I don't want to be good at hockey just because it's what I'm supposed to want. I want to figure out what I actually want. And the only time I feel like myself, like I know who I am, is when I'm with you."

She kissed him again. Slower this time. Soft and careful and full of all the things she couldn't quite say. The musty smell of the storage room mixed with his soap—familiar, grounding. His hand cupped her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone with heartbreaking gentleness.

When they pulled apart, she checked her phone: 11:42 AM.

"I have Circuit Lab at 1:15."

"How long does that run?"

"Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour."

"So we have—" Ethan calculated. "Thirty-three minutes now, then ninety-minute gap, then you're free at 2:30?"

"Badminton tournament starts at 6. I need to be arena by 5."

"So 2:30 to 5. Two and a half hours." He said it like he was calculating treasure. "And then I have to be at bus station by 6:30 for the 7 PM bus back."

"That's it? That's all we get?"

"That's all I could manage." Ethan touched her face. "But it's more than we've had in six weeks. I'll take it."

Sophia's phone buzzed: Maya. Dr. Reeves asking where you are. Told him bathroom emergency. Get back soon.

"I have to go."

"I know." Ethan stood, pulled her up with him. "Where should I meet you after?"

"Arena upstairs. Badminton tournament. I'll find you around 2:30?"

"I'll be there." He pulled her close one more time, kissed the top of her head. His heart beat steady against her ear—real, alive, here. "Good luck with Circuit Lab."

"Good luck not getting spotted."

"I've gotten pretty good at being invisible."

They left the equipment room separately—her first, then him after a thirty-second delay. She walked back to the basement conference rooms with her heart racing and her lips still tingling. Real. He was real and here and they had two more hours this afternoon.

She could make it through one more competition.

Circuit Lab went even better than Trajectory.

Sophia partnered with a senior named Lisa Chen (apparently Churchill High had a lot of Chens who weren't related). They had to build a functioning circuit to specifications, then troubleshoot deliberately introduced problems. Sophia's hands: steady. Her mind: clear. She understood electricity flow, resistance calculations, parallel versus series configurations. She and Lisa worked with efficient precision.

"Time!" The judge called. "Churchill High—perfect score. Well done."

More applause. Dr. Reeves beaming. Maya giving her a thumbs up from across the room. And somewhere in the building, Ethan waiting.

At 2:15 PM, Science Olympiad events concluded. They'd medaled in three categories—excellent showing for their first major competition. Dr. Reeves collected results, organized the team for van loading at 4 PM for those not staying.

"Sophia's staying," Maya announced. "Badminton tournament tonight, remember?"

"Right, right." Dr. Reeves checked his clipboard. "Your parents arranged your own ride back tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir. After tournament concludes Sunday morning."

"Okay. Be safe. Compete well. Make us proud."

"Will do."

The team packed up, headed out. Maya lingered until Dr. Reeves was occupied with loading vans, then grabbed Sophia's arm.

"Go. You have from now until 5 PM. I'm heading to hotel to nap but my phone is on if you need emergency extraction."

"Thank you. For everything."

"Thank your boyfriend for driving eight hours. That's commitment." Maya hugged her. "Be smart. Be happy. I'll see you at tournament later."

She left. And Sophia was free.

She took the stairs to the main level, then the escalator to the upper arena. Badminton being set up. The space was enormous—twenty courts laid out on the arena floor, stands surrounding them, the echo of high-ceilinged athletic facilities. Tournament organizers setting up nets and line marking. A few early competitors already warming up.

And standing by the entrance to the stands, looking at his phone: Ethan.

Sophia's feet moved before she consciously decided. Crossed the arena floor, climbed into the stands, sat next to him.

"Hi."

He looked up. His smile was so bright it made her chest hurt. "Hi. How'd it go?"

"Perfect score."

"Of course you did." He pocketed his phone. "So we have two and a half hours. What do you want to do?"

"Honestly? Just talk. Just be together without having to hide in equipment rooms."

"Little bit hard in a public arena."

"True." Sophia thought. "There's a skyway system downtown. Connected buildings, coffee shops. We could walk?"

"Lead the way."

They left the convention center, entered the skyway system. Glass-walled corridors overlooked the streets below, connecting tower lobbies and office buildings in a climate-controlled maze. Outside, February cold pressed against the windows. Inside, warm air and the muffled sounds of a Saturday afternoon.

They walked side by side. Close enough that their hands occasionally brushed. Far enough apart that they looked like friends to any observer. They talked about everything and nothing. Ethan described the physics of hockey—angles and momentum and friction coefficients—and how understanding the math actually made him better. Sophia told him about badminton nationals coming up in March, about Coach Kim's quiet support, about the way hitting a perfect smash felt like solving an equation.

College applications. Sophia applying to schools in the Midwest and East Coast—Minnesota, Michigan, Chicago, Boston. Ethan expected to apply to schools with strong hockey programs, but what he really wanted was somewhere with good physics and engineering programs that also happened to have hockey.

"We could end up—like, what if we both got into schools in the same city? By accident?"

"I'm not leaving it to accident." He stopped walking, turned to face her. "I'm choosing schools where you might be. I'm choosing a major I actually care about instead of what my dad wants. I'm choosing to figure out who I am instead of who everyone thinks I should be."

"What if your dad cuts you off? College tuition, support—"

"Then I'll figure it out. Scholarships, loans, work. People do it." He said it with certainty that made her believe him. "I'm not staying under his control forever. Eighteen months until I'm eighteen. Then I'm legally an adult and he can't do this anymore."

Eighteen months. A year and a half of distance and letters and stolen moments. Impossible and survivable in equal measure.

They found a coffee shop, bought drinks they didn't really want just to have somewhere to sit. Tucked into a corner table, they kept talking. Ethan pulled out his phone—not the confiscated one, a new burner he'd bought—and showed her photos from Michigan. The prep school campus, cold and institutional. His dorm room, sterile and small. The hockey rink where he practiced twice a day.

Sophia showed him photos from her life: badminton competitions, Science Olympiad practices, selfies with Maya making ridiculous faces. Normal teenage life, except for the boyfriend-shaped absence in all of it.

"I miss you in every photo."

"Same. Everything I do, I'm thinking about what I'd tell you later. Like you're the audience I'm performing for except I want you in the show with me, not watching from distance."

"Worst theater metaphor ever."

"Hey, I'm hockey player, not English major."

"You're actually good at English when you try."

"Only because you make me read books with you."

"Made. Past tense."

"Make. Present tense. I'm still reading books you recommend. It's not the same when I can't discuss them with you but I do it anyway." He reached across the table, took her hand. "Everything I do is still with you. Even when you're not there."

They sat like that. Hands linked across coffee shop table. Talking until they ran out of words and just looked at each other. Memorizing. Storing up against the coming absence.

At 4:45 PM, Sophia's phone alarm: time to head to arena.

"I have to warm up."

"Can I watch?"

"You want to watch me warm up? That's the boring part."

"All parts are interesting when I haven't seen you in six weeks."

They walked back to the convention center, to the arena. Sophia changed into her competition gear in the locker room—red and white uniform, lucky shoes, hair braided tight. When she emerged, Ethan was in the stands, three rows back from the court where she'd been assigned for warm-ups.

She tried to focus on her stretching, practice shots, footwork drills. But knowing he was watching made everything sharper. She moved with extra precision, hit shots with extra power. Showing off maybe, but not in a bad way. Showing him who she was on the court—strong, fast, confident. The version of herself that knew exactly what she was capable of.

At 5:45, Coach Kim appeared. Glanced at the stands, saw Ethan. Her expression flickered with recognition before settling back to professional.

"Chen. Your first match is at 6:15. Court 4. You ready?"

"Yes, Coach."

"Good. Focus up. Play smart. Use that energy." Her eyes flicked to the stands again. "But don't let it make you reckless."

"I won't."

Coach Kim nodded and moved on. Sophia glanced back at Ethan. He raised his hand in a small wave.

She was going to win this tournament. Not for the medal or the ranking points.

For him. For them. For proof that she could be excellent even in the middle of impossible circumstances.

Sophia won her first match 21-9, 21-7.

The opponent: good but not great. Sophia read her patterns quickly, exploited weaknesses, played with aggressive confidence. Between sets, she glanced at the stands. Ethan watching with the intensity of someone studying, not just spectating.

Second match, quarterfinals: tougher opponent from Minnesota. First set was close: 21-18. Second set, Sophia found her rhythm. Played smarter, not harder. Placed shots instead of just smashing. Won 21-12.

Semifinals at 7:30. The tournament running late—too many matches, not enough courts. Sophia was supposed to play at 7:00, but her match got pushed to 7:30, then 7:45.

At 7:00, Ethan came down from the stands, found her in the staging area.

"I'm going to miss the match."

Sophia's heart sank. "Your bus—"

"Leaves at 7:15. I should already be gone. But I wanted to say goodbye first."

They moved to the edge of the staging area. As private as they could get in a room full of athletes and coaches. Tears threatening.

"I don't want you to go."

"I know. I don't want to go either. But if I miss this bus, there isn't another until morning, and if I'm not back at school by 10 AM tomorrow, they'll report me missing." Ethan took both her hands. "I have to go."

"I know."

"But I watched you play. I saw you win. I got to spend today with you, talking and being real with each other. That's more than I had yesterday."

"Still not enough."

"No. But it's what we have." He pulled her close, kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips. Soft and careful because they were in public but intense enough that she felt it down to her toes. "Win this tournament. Play the way you played earlier—fierce and smart and unstoppable. And when you win, you'll know I was here. That I saw you. That I'm always watching even when I'm not there."

"How will I know?"

"Because I'll tell you. In letters, in codes, in whatever ways we figure out." One more kiss. "I love you."

"Love you too. Be safe. Text Jordan when you're back."

"I will." He stepped back, still holding her hand, then let go. "Win this, Sophia."

He left. She watched him walk away, watched him disappear into the crowd. The loss hit like a physical thing.

Then she turned back to the court. Her semifinal opponent warming up already. Ten minutes before match start.

She used them to focus. To channel the ache of missing him into competitive fire. Coach Kim's words: use that energy, don't let it make you reckless.

She could do this.

The semifinal match was brutal.

Her opponent: Wisconsin champion. Tall, fast, powerful. First set went to 22-20 before Sophia took it. Second set, the Wisconsin player adjusted. Got more aggressive at net, varied her serves, pushed Sophia around the court.

At 15-12, Sophia glanced at the stands. He wasn't there anymore. Just Maya, Coach Kim, random spectators.

But he'd been there. He'd watched her.

She refocused. Read her opponent's patterns. Noticed the weight shift before cross-court shots, the shoulder telegraph before clears. Started anticipating. Started winning points through intelligence instead of just power.

At 18-18, crucial point. Long rally. Both of them scrambling, retrieving impossible shots. Sophia saw the pattern: cross-court, down the line, cross-court, down the line. On the next cross-court, she anticipated, moved early, intercepted at net.

Winner. 19-18.

Her serve. She took a breath, served deep, followed to net. Her opponent cleared. Sophia smashed from mid-court.

Ace. 20-18.

Championship point. Her serve again. She served short this time, forcing an awkward return. The shuttle came back high. Sophia positioned, jumped, smashed with everything she had.

The shuttle hit the line. Her opponent dove, missed by inches.

"Point, game, match. Chen wins 22-20, 21-18. She advances to finals tomorrow morning."

Sophia stood at net. Breathing hard. Shaking slightly from adrenaline. She'd done it. Made finals playing the best badminton of her life, with him watching for half of it and in her heart for the rest.

Coach Kim nodding approval. Maya cheering from the stands. Sophia bowed to her opponent, shook hands, walked off court.

Finals tomorrow at 10 AM. Then the drive home. Back to reality, to distance, to coded messages and letters.

But today, she'd seen him. Today, they'd been together. For a few hours, they'd been real to each other instead of just words on pages.

It was enough.

It had to be.

Sophia was packing up her gear at 8:30 PM when Maya appeared. Face pale.

"We have a problem."

Sophia's stomach dropped. "What kind of—"

Maya held out her phone. Instagram open. A photo that made Sophia's blood run cold.

Her and Ethan. In the equipment room. The door partially open, clearly kissing. Posted by an anonymous account two minutes ago. Tagged with both their names, plus an account she didn't recognize: @RobertPriceEsq.

Caption: "Evidence collected 2/13/25, 3:47 PM"

Already 127 likes. Comments pouring in.

Sophia's phone rang. Dad.

She answered with shaking hands. "Dad?"

"Sophia." His voice was tight. "Robert Price's lawyer just emailed. Emergency restraining order hearing Monday 9 AM. They have photo evidence documenting time and location. This is happening."

"But we didn't—we just—"

"I know. But they have evidence of contact, which is what they needed." Her father's voice: controlled fury. "I'm getting on a plane first thing tomorrow morning. We're fighting this. But Sophia—this is real now. Monday morning, Minneapolis courthouse. His lawyers, us, a judge. Do you understand?"

She looked at Maya's phone. At the photo of her and Ethan kissing. Someone had followed them. Photographed them. Waited for the perfect moment to weaponize it.

"I understand."

"Win your tournament tomorrow. Then come home. We'll figure out the rest." He paused. "I love you. We're with you. Always."

The call ended.

Sophia stared at the phone. At the Instagram post. At the evidence that would be presented Monday morning.

Her phone buzzed. A text from a number she didn't recognize:

See you in court, Ms. Chen. - RP

The tournament announcer's voice echoed through the arena: "Chen advances to finals tomorrow."

But tomorrow didn't matter anymore.

Monday did.

TO BE CONTINUED...

What happens at Monday's hearing? What evidence will Robert Price present? Can the Chen family fight back against unlimited resources? Will Sophia and Ethan survive legal separation?

Find out in Episode 7...

End of Chapter 4

End of Episode 6: "The Weight"

Chapter 4 Word Count: Approximately 5,200 words Total Episode Word Count: Approximately 21,000 words

CLIFFHANGER ELEMENTS:

Photo Evidence: Kiss captured and posted, tagged to Robert Price's business account

Emergency Hearing: Monday 9 AM restraining order hearing, Dad flying to Minneapolis

Direct Threat: Text from Robert Price himself to Sophia

Episode 7 will open with: - Finals match under pressure - Photo aftermath - Robert Price's legal offensive - Monday morning courthouse battle