A Script For Seven Years: Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Cal

The florescent lights of the library buzz with a relentless, humming that sets my teeth on edge. Across the old oak table, Lucy is tapping her highlighter against a notebook, the sharp click-click-click filling the quiet space.

"So, if we split the presentation into three sections," Lucy starts, flipping through her index cards with a breeziness that makes me want to grab them and rip them to shreds. "Cal can take the historical context, Alex does the character analysis, and I'll handle the thematic breakdown. Sound good?"

"Yeah, fine," I mutter, not looking up from my laptop.

I'm not looking at the screen though. My eyes are focused on the bottom corner of my vision, watching Alex's every move. She's too quiet. Her pen is hovering over an open notebook, the tip barely touching the paper, leaving tiny, black ink dots. Every couple seconds, her hand twitches, tightening around the plastic casing.

The scent of her hair and the dusty auditorium floor lingers in the back of my throat. It's only been a few hours since I held her against my chest, feeling her fall apart and piece herself back together in my arms.

Why does the thought of your house terrify me?

That question from earlier still claws at my heart. A dark, ugly guilt settling at the bottom of my stomach. She doesn't remember. Her mind had blocked it off to protect her, but her body—her instincts— remember everything. The nameless dread she felt is a monster I had helped create, and every time she looks at me with that pure, unbroken trust, it feels like a jagged blade twisting deeper into my chest. I am her protector, yes. But I'm also the gatekeeper to the very nightmare she's running from.

"Cal? Earth to Cal," Lucy's says, her voice cutting through my thoughts, sharp and impatient. "Are you even listening? I asked if you have the notes on the setting."

"I have them," I say, my voice dropping into the flat, guarded tone I use to mask the pain. I open the file on my computer, my fingers flying over the keyboard with unnecessary force.

Beside me, Alex shifts. I catch the sharp intake of her breath. It was subtle—anyone could have missed it— but to me, it sounded like an alarm bell.

Instinct takes over before I can stop it. I drop my hand beneath the table, letting it rest on her knee. A silent anchor. I'm here, you're safe.

Alex doesn't flinch. Instead, she leans into the touch, her tense posture melting a fraction. But as she turns to look at me, the question in her soft, searching eyes doesn't fade. The fragile peace we built in the auditorium is holding for now, but the shadows are growing longer, and I can't keep the dark at bay forever.