The next morning greeted me with the gentle rustling of leaves outside my window and golden light spilling across the sheets in warm, lazy streaks. For a few seconds, I just lay there, listening to the quiet hum of life beyond the dorm walls. The world felt slow in a way I rarely got to experience anymore.
My fingers brushed over the hem of my sleeve absently, mind still half-caught in the warmth of yesterday—the garden, the teasing, the weight of Lillian's hand in mine. The truth Diana and Camille had spoken softly in the hallway still lingered, not yet urgent but not easily dismissed either.
Things were changing again.
I sat up slowly, brushing my fingers through the soft curtain of my blonde hair, letting the cool air kiss my bare shoulders before slipping into the clean lines of my uniform. The fabric clung with its usual formality—structured white jacket, gold trim and polished buttons catching the light, fitted gloves, the black bow tied neatly behind my head. I adjusted the crimson brooch at my chest, letting it settle over my heartbeat.
Even now, I couldn't tell if I was getting used to it, or if I had simply grown into the role.
By the time I stepped out into the hallway, the usual hum of activity had returned. A few girls waved politely as I passed. Some stepped aside with quiet nods—out of respect, or something else, I didn't know. I moved like a ghost among them lately. Present, but not quite of this place anymore.
I found Claire in the council room—not at her desk, of course, but sprawled over the floor with a box of posters and absolutely no shame.
"There you are," she said with a grin, eyes bright as she looked up. Her violet gaze always had a spark to it, like she was constantly teetering on the edge of doing something chaotic and dragging you along for the ride. "Come help me put these up!"
"What are they?" I asked, eyeing the scattered papers.
"The festival," she said cheerfully. "You forgot, didn't you?"
I blinked. "I didn't—wait, that's this week?"
Claire smirked. "Exactly. Which is why I'm here and not napping like a sane person."
"Since when have you been sane?"
"Touché."
I knelt beside her and picked up one of the posters. Vibrant, colorful artwork splashed across the page—announcements for booths, events, performances. The whole thing had a dizzying amount of glitter and magic-infused ink that shimmered when the light caught it.
Claire watched me read with a sideways glance, her tone shifting just a little. "You okay?"
I looked up at her. "What do you mean?"
"You're quieter lately. Not in the usual 'Sera is pretending to be annoyed' way, but the actual 'something's on her mind' way."
I hesitated.
Claire didn't press. She never did when it mattered. Just leaned back on her hands and looked up at the ceiling like she wasn't watching me at all.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe it's just… I feel like something's ending. Or starting. I'm not sure which."
She was quiet for a beat. Then:
"You're allowed to change, you know."
I looked at her, surprised.
"You don't have to stay here just because it's safe. You don't have to stay the same just because you think that's what everyone expects." Her voice wasn't teasing anymore. "We'd still care about you. No matter where you go."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned my eyes back to the poster.
"Thanks, Claire."
She nudged my side with her shoulder. "Now help me hang these up before I get dramatic and start crying."
"You cry?"
"I sob. Very beautifully."
I smiled, and we spent the next half hour hanging up the posters, half working, half playfully arguing about where to place them. I let myself forget the weight in my chest for a little while. Just us, the ink-stained corners of her fingers, and the faint scent of sunshine and parchment that always seemed to cling to her skin.
By the time the last poster was pinned neatly to the common hall board, Claire had managed to wedge herself into the most precarious position imaginable—one foot on a bench, the other half-dangling off the edge as she leaned forward, tongue peeking slightly from the corner of her mouth in concentration.
"Careful," I muttered, arms crossed as I stood beneath her. "If you fall, I'm not catching you."
"You'd catch me," she said confidently, not even looking down. "You're all soft and heroic underneath that tsundere thing you've got going."
"I'm serious."
"You're adorable when you lie."
She grinned triumphantly as she pressed the final edge of the poster flat and looked down at me with all the self-satisfaction of someone who'd just saved the world using only tacks and glitter.
"Done," she declared.
"Finally."
She hopped down with the grace of a cat, landing a little too close, as always. "You're welcome, by the way."
I raised an eyebrow. "For?"
"For dragging you out of whatever existential spiral you were doing alone in your room this morning."
I opened my mouth to deny it, but her smug smile made it pointless.
"…Fine. Maybe. A little spiral."
Claire leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. "Just… don't forget we're here too, okay? You don't have to handle everything on your own."
There was something about the way she said it—no pressure, just understanding—that made my heart ache a little.
I nodded once. "I won't."
"Good." She gave me a playful little tap on the nose and turned with a skip in her step. "Now let's go find the others. I'm in the mood to interrupt something dramatic and beautiful."
"You mean Lillian."
Claire laughed without denying it.
—
The garden, as always, welcomed us with open arms. The sun had reached its peak, casting long beams of light through the branches overhead, dancing across the soft earth and stone paths. The hydrangeas were in full bloom, and somewhere nearby, bees buzzed lazily between the lavender stalks.
Tessa stood under the shade of a vine-covered trellis, reading. Or pretending to. She lifted her gaze as we approached, her red eyes calm but discerning.
"You're late," she said to Claire.
"Fashionably," Claire replied. "And you love me that way."
Tessa didn't argue.
Lillian and Camille were seated together by the old stone bench, sunlight catching the soft pink of Lillian's hair and the silvery-white strands of Camille's as they shared quiet conversation. The moment they spotted us, the air shifted—gentle smiles, familiar warmth, like we'd all been waiting for this moment without realizing it.
Lillian patted the seat beside her. "Come sit."
Camille's eyes met mine for a moment—intense, but not unreadable. "You've been busy," she said softly.
"I've been thinking," I corrected.
"Dangerous," Diana's voice chimed from behind me.
I turned just in time to see her arrive in perfect stride, holding a delicate teacup as if it were a royal accessory. She sipped from it, eyes flicking over me with something like amusement—and something else.
"You all planned this, didn't you?" I asked, watching the way they arranged themselves around the garden like it had been choreographed.
"Planned what?" Lillian asked innocently.
"This," I said, gesturing. "The full set. One of each flavor."
Diana smirked. "So you admit we're irresistible."
I sat down with a sigh, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck. "That's not what I said."
Claire dropped into the grass beside me, arms draped over her knees. "But you thought it."
I did, of course. But I wasn't about to say it out loud.
"Anyway," I muttered, trying to steer the conversation, "Festival week starts soon. Are you all—"
"Oh no," Camille cut in, smiling slightly. "You don't get to change the subject now."
"She's squirming," Lillian whispered into my ear. "It's adorable."
I let my face fall into my hands. "You're all impossible."
"Say the line," Claire grinned.
I peeked at her through my fingers. "What line?"
She beamed. "'Gosh, these heroines are impossible.'"
Laughter spilled out before I could stop it, shaking my shoulders, light and warm and helpless. I looked at them—each so different, each so vivid and brilliant in the sunlight—and I realized something terrifying.
I didn't want to leave them.
Not yet.
Not even soon.
And that made everything so much harder.
But it also made this moment—this silly, chaotic, beautiful moment—feel like something I would carry with me forever.
Even if I had to say goodbye someday.
Especially because I might have to.