Chapter Nineteen: Turbulence
The airport was a cathedral of echoes and goodbyes, a place where time stretched thin and snapped all at once. Amaya stood with her parents in a tight, fragile knot just outside the security line, the polished floor reflecting the harsh, sentimental lighting. Liam's single large backpack was slung over one shoulder, his boarding pass clutched in his hand like a ticket to a different life.
Their mother's composure had dissolved into a steady stream of last-minute advice and damp handkerchiefs. "Remember to call the minute you land. And eat something other than instant noodles, for heaven's sake. And the number for the campus clinic is in the front pocket of your—"
"Mom," Liam cut in gently, catching her hands. "I've got it. I promise." He pulled her into a fierce hug, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs against his chest. Over her head, his eyes met Amaya's—bright with an emotion he'd never admit to.
Their father clasped Liam's shoulder, his voice gruff. "Make us proud, son. But more importantly, make yourself proud. And if you see a great white, for God's sake, stay in the boat."
A watery laugh escaped Liam. "Deal."
Then it was her turn. The air between them crackled with all the unsaid things—the years of shared secrets, the relentless teasing, the unwavering, bedrock-solid support. He opened his arms, and she walked into them, burying her face in the soft cotton of his hoodie. The familiar scent of him—laundry soap, cheap cologne, and home—hit her like a physical blow.
"Okay, crybaby," he murmured into her hair, his own voice suspiciously thick. "Don't flood the terminal."
"I'm not crying," she lied, her words muffled against his chest as the hot tears spilled over. Her shoulders trembled, a dam breaking under the weight of his impending absence.
"You are. You're a terrible liar. It's your worst quality." He held her tighter. "Remember the rules. Especially the one about the stepladder."
A sob-laugh hiccupped out of her. "Shut up."
He pulled back, holding her at arm's length. His thumbs wiped roughly at the tears streaking her cheeks. "You're going to be amazing. On everything. Just… don't forget to look up, okay?"
She nodded, unable to speak, clinging to his wrists.
With a final, bone-crushing squeeze, he released her, hoisted his bag, and offered a jaunty, two-fingered salute to all of them. Then he turned and joined the queue, never looking back. It was a clean exit, just like he'd always preferred.
They watched until he vanished around the corner, swallowed by the machinery of travel. The silence he left behind was immense. Amaya's mother sniffled, dabbing her eyes. Her father cleared his throat, staring fixedly at the now-empty security gate.
The ride home was quiet, the car filled with the ghost of Liam's laughter. Amaya stared out the window, the world a blur of grey highway and generic buildings. The tears had stopped, leaving a hollow, aching feeling in her chest. She felt unmoored. For years, her life had been a duet—her wild, daydreaming melodies harmonizing (or clashing) with Liam's steady, teasing bassline. Now, it was a solo act, and the stage felt terrifyingly vast and empty.
When they pulled into the driveway, the sight of the Rowon house didn't bring its usual flutter of anticipation. It just looked like a house. Her own home felt too large, too quiet.
She went straight to her room, bypassing the stack of notes on her desk, and curled up on her bed. The silence was a physical presence. No bass thumping through the wall from Liam's speakers. No sudden appearance in her doorway with a sarcastic comment. She hugged her pillow, the emptiness swelling until it threatened to swallow her whole.
She must have dozed off, because the soft knock on her door sometime later made her jerk awake. The light in the room had softened to late afternoon gold.
"Amaya?" Her mother's voice was gentle. "I made some tea."
Amaya sat up, scrubbing at her face. "I'm okay, Mom."
Her mother came in, setting a steaming mug on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. She didn't speak for a moment, just smoothed the duvet cover. "It's alright not to be okay," she said finally. "He's your best friend as much as he's your brother. This space… it's going to feel strange."
Amaya nodded, fresh tears welling. "It already does."
"I know." Her mother pulled her into a sideways hug. "But you know what the best cure for missing someone is?"
"What?"
"Keeping busy. Making them proud." She patted Amaya's knee. "You have the most important exams of your life starting in seventy-two hours. Liam wouldn't want you moping. He'd want you buried in those books, proving to everyone—especially a certain brooding tutor—exactly how brilliant you are."
A weak smile touched Amaya's lips. "He'd say I need to conquer the earthworms."
"Then conquer them." Her mother stood up, her usual practical demeanor returning. "Drink your tea. Then hit the books. The best way to honor your brother is to succeed. And," she added, a glint in her eye, "to give him some truly excellent gossip to demand when he calls."
After her mother left, Amaya sipped the tea, its warmth spreading through the hollow places. She looked at her desk, at the formidable wall of textbooks. Her mother was right. Moping was a luxury she couldn't afford. Liam was chasing his dream across an ocean. The least she could do was face her own battlefield.
She got up, splashed cold water on her face, and sat down at her desk. She opened her zoology notes to the section on annelids. The words swam for a moment, blurred by residual grief. Then she blinked, took a deep breath, and forced her focus to narrow to the page.
Protonephridia. Flame cells. Metanephridia. Nephrostome.
Aris's voice, cool and precise, sounded in her memory. You consistently conflate them.
Her spine straightened. She would not conflate them. She would master them. For herself. For Liam. And maybe, a little, for the boy next door who expected her to fail.
The studying that followed was different. It was sharper, more desperate, more focused. The heartache was funneled into a fierce determination. She wasn't just studying to pass; she was studying to prove something—to her family, to Aris, to the empty space where her brother used to be.
Later, as dusk fell, she saw the light come on in Aris's room across the way. He appeared at his window, looking out, a silhouette against the warm lamp glow. He stood there for a long moment, then his gaze seemed to drift across the lawn, toward her window.
Amaya didn't look away. She held her ground, her pencil poised over her notes. She didn't smile or wave. She just met the shadow of his gaze through the two panes of glass separating them.
He was the one who looked away first, turning back into his room.
But in that silent exchange, Amaya felt a shift. The crying was done. The turbulence of goodbye was giving way to a new, steady pressure. The path ahead was clear: exams, then whatever came after. And for the first time, she felt ready to walk it alone—or, perhaps, to finally meet him somewhere in the middle.