The snow had begun to recede in patches, revealing the damp cobblestones underneath, and with it, the school began to awaken from its winter hush. The days grew longer, but Andrew barely noticed. He moved with precision, each hour carved into quiet routines: lectures, reading, sketches, notes, tea with Kate, the occasional polite conversation with a professor. Life resumed, but Andrew's heart remained locked in an unreachable room within him.
It had been a month since the night of the fight, a month since his mask had fallen away in front of Emma and Jason. A month since Kate had quietly become the only person who could reach him without stirring the ghosts in his chest.
He and Kate had settled into a rhythm. She waited for him after lectures. He walked her to the dormitory. Sometimes they shared meals in the campus garden, now spotted with melting frost and the earliest hints of spring. He didn't touch her, not even her hand, but there was something honest in their companionship—something that made the silence between them feel less like absence and more like understanding.
One quiet Saturday afternoon, they visited the art museum.
Saint Aramond's had a modest but dignified gallery in the west wing, where alumni works and regional artists were displayed. It was warm inside, smelling of polished wood and aged canvas. Kate walked ahead, weaving between statues, her arms folded as she examined brushstrokes. Andrew followed more slowly, lingering.
He stopped in front of a painting of a woman alone at a window, the light pooling at her feet. Her expression was unreadable—somewhere between longing and resolve.
"You like that one?" Kate's voice was soft behind him.
"It reminds me of someone," he said.
"Emma."
He glanced at her. "Yeah."
Kate didn't look away. "Do you still..."
"No," Andrew replied too quickly. He paused. "I don't know. It's not love. Not anymore. But it's not nothing either."
"That sounds lonely."
"It is."
They stood there a moment longer.
Then Kate reached out, almost without thinking, and took his hand. Her fingers were warm. He didn't pull away.
---
Elsewhere on campus, Emma and Jason were caught in their own echo chamber of intensity.
Jason had changed—somewhat. He didn't flirt as openly anymore, didn't disappear for hours at a time, and he hadn't been seen near any other girls in weeks. He still wore his leather jacket and smirked when challenged, but with Emma, there was softness. A side only she could draw out.
Still, there were cracks.
Their arguments were quieter now but more frequent. About little things. About how she looked at Andrew sometimes. About how Jason still kept secrets.
Emma had once felt electrified by the mystery of him. Now, she felt like she was chasing fragments of a puzzle she didn't know how to solve.
One evening, she passed Andrew on the stone steps leading up to the poetry hall. He was alone, sketchbook in hand, head bent as he drew something she couldn't see.
"Hey," she said.
He looked up, startled. "Emma."
She smiled faintly. "You still draw?"
"Sometimes."
"You used to show me."
He hesitated. Then closed the book. "Some things change."
There was no malice in his tone, but it was final.
Emma stood there for a moment longer. She wanted to say something—apologize maybe, or explain—but the words turned bitter in her throat. So instead, she turned and left.
---
The following week, the school hosted the annual Winter Reading.
It was a small tradition, where students read their own poetry or prose in the old assembly hall by candlelight. Professors attended. Alumni visited. There were tea and mulled wine and quiet applause.
Andrew hadn't signed up.
Kate had.
"You should come," she told him the morning of. "I'd like you to hear it."
"You're reading one of yours?"
She nodded. "It's about you. Sort of."
He paused. "Alright. I'll be there."
That night, the hall flickered with amber glow. The smell of wax and cloves lingered in the air. Students clustered on long wooden benches, their coats folded over their laps. Jason and Emma arrived late, sitting near the back.
Andrew sat near the front.
Kate took the stage midway through the evening. She looked small beneath the high ceiling, her hair tucked into a bun, her coat left open like armor.
She read with clear, soft confidence:
"Some hearts are not broken, They are quietly rewritten— Redrafted in smaller fonts, Margins narrower than breath.
Some ache like silence in a crowded room. Some love without wanting, Some bleed without a wound.
But some, Some simply wait. For someone who'll read the page And not flinch."
There was a hush when she finished.
Andrew exhaled slowly.
In the back, Emma looked away.
---
After the reading, the hallway outside was filled with murmurs and praise. Kate received quiet congratulations. Andrew lingered near a column, watching the candlelight catch in the stone.
Kate approached him slowly.
"Was it too much?" she asked.
"It was... honest," he said.
"You know it's about you."
"Yeah."
She bit her lip. "And?"
He looked at her. Really looked.
"It's the kindest thing anyone's ever written about me."
Her face softened. "Then you'll let me write more?"
He didn't answer. But when they walked home, their shoulders brushed, and he didn't pull away.
---
The next morning, a letter arrived at Andrew's dorm.
From Emma.
A short one. Only three lines.
"I'm sorry I never asked how you felt. I was too busy listening to my own heart. I hope you find someone who listens to yours."
He folded the paper slowly, then tucked it into his sketchbook.
Kate didn't ask what it was.
She didn't need to.
The past had finally spoken its last line.
And spring was coming.