What Thunder left behind by DT Martin 4 Sunlight through glass
7 Mornings have passed since the test, and the skies remain dry.
The storm relinquished its hold without ceremony and retreated
beyond the horizon while the world pressed forward, letting
the rupture fade from memory. Now I wake earlier, not from
panic, but from a quiet vigilance I can't name.
Each morning, clean light stretches across the walls, gold
through the blinds, soft and precise.
I dress without hurry, hoodie, jeans, notes already organized
in my bag. The ache in my fingers fades,
but a deeper tension settles behind my ribs, a tightness I
can't define. Professor Hachette remains
silent. His inbox holds nothing for me
in the lecture hall. He passes without pause,
continuing the lesson with mechanical precision, never
acknowledging my existence. The silence is deliberate,
shaped with intention. It presses in, undisturbed,
unyielding. Still.
I move. Tuesday mechanics.
I reach the solution three steps before Professor Marsh uncaps
the marker. He pauses midway through the
explanation, browse drawn faintly, though he says nothing.
His hands move slower for the rest of the hour.
Wednesday Philosophy. The room leans into a discussion
on perception. I speak once the words leave my
mouth clean and sharp. Pain doesn't require proof to
leave a mark. The professor turns his head,
catching my meaning, then continues without interruption.
Thursday writing seminar. Miss Yarrow hands out slips of
paper and asks us to describe fear using only temperature and
taste. I write burnt sugar tinged with
copper. She reads it aloud without
attaching my name, but the glance she gives me afterward
lingers longer than the others. Across campus, conversations
shift when I pass through. Some students still whisper
nicknames behind half raised hands.
Calculator. Storm Girl.
Sad story. A boy near the philosophy wing
calls out, asking whether my math induced horror tales are
part of the syllabus. Laughter follows.
Another offers me a pen, claiming I'll need it for my
next trauma essay. I don't stop.
My pace remains steady. I focus on the path ahead.
James handles it with relentless charm.
He cuts through conversations quick, with remarks and humor so
effortless it seems rehearsed. Once, he greeted a group of
gawking freshmen with a dramatic bow, declaring.
Behold the myth, the marvel, the unshakable Lily Ross.
She deciphers the cosmos while you still forget your dorm code.
His presence becomes a shield. I never requested one.
I can't imagine losing. We eat lunch in the same place
each day, beneath the Maple at the edge of the quad.
James always arrives early, arranging our space with ritual,
blanket unfolded, snacks unpacked, a notebook flipped
open and left untouched. He narrates the shapes of
passing clouds, recites fake class announcements.
On Thursday, he claims the university is introducing an
emergency kitten room for overstimulated math majors.
I don't laugh out loud, but he notices the way my shoulders
ease, and that's enough for him. Tammy joins us when her schedule
allows, though those moments grow rare.
She's taken on her new role as student government liaison for
Housing and Wellness, a title filling half her planner, and
most afternoons her phone buzzes every six minutes.
Her iPad rarely leaves her lap. She carries a portable charger
with the reverence others reserve for heirlooms.
James glances at her screen, his mouth quirking.
Another crisis? Tammy doesn't answer at first,
tapping out a message. He nudges a packet of crackers
toward her. She takes 1 without looking up,
and he lets the moment drop. Yesterday, she dropped onto the
blanket with an exhale sharp enough to bend grass.
Meeting with Reslife N seas heating is failing again.
They're demanding I file a second climate incident.
Report her curls piled into a high knot with a red pen tucked
behind one ear. The T in her thermos has long
gone cold, but she keeps sipping it anyway.
James offers to fake an outage in the admin office's e-mail
system. She doesn't decline.
Classes continue. Each one brings something that
steadies me, if only for an hour.
Mechanics offers clean friction and force.
Equations behave when asked. Philosophy challenges the
structure of memory. Words sharpen not as weapons,
more as tools. Writing draws out something I
haven't touched in years. Miss Yarrow doesn't flinch when
my lines darken. She leans in.
English literature still opens with a quote.
Today's some wounds do not close, they become language.
I copy it once in my notes, then again at the top of the page,
boxed in ink. Steven hasn't crossed my path
since the test. His absence presses rather than
lingers. Jeff stays more rumor than
presents. I hear his name and half spoken
comments and catch glimpses in the margins of conversations.
Students glanced toward the stairwell during calculus,
murmuring about someone who left early or might have filed A
complaint. James says nothing about either
of them. Instead, he draws closer each
time my gaze falters. He waits outside my dorm with
cocoa and bananas, declaring them a sacred combination for
post traumatic test recovery. Brings index cards, obscure
theorems on one side, terrible knock knock jokes on the other.
He hums in the library, softly enough to blend into the air.
When I can't speak, he leaves the silence open until it
softens. Days move forward.
My hands no longer shake when I open my notebook.
My steps find steadier ground. The weight remains, but it has
shifted. Hachette remains quiet.
The placement decision has not arrived, I tell myself.
The answer is already clear. My work wasn't enough.
Whatever clarity I found during the exam drifted off the page
before he could see it. And yet I still show up. 11:58
AM Friday, September 13th Writing seminar.
Light through the stained glass window stains the tile with
fractured gold and diluted blue, blurring the room's edges until
its shape nearly dissolves. The final scrape of a chair leg
fades down the stairwell, leaving the rustle of paper and
the faint click of Miss Yarrow's pen as she taps it once against
her mug before setting it aside. I remain seated.
Movement feels uncalled for. My notebook rests open across my
knees, today's final sentence unfinished, its last word
suspended without punctuation. Caught between decisions, I wait
for the quiet to settle, then fold the pages corner in
silence. Miss Yarrow doesn't speak at
first. She clears a stack of index
cards, rearranges a spine. Cracked Anthology and adjust the
scarf at her wrist with the care of someone who understands
silence and refuses to break it too soon.
When she finally looks up, her voice arrives without preamble.
Lily. The name lands gently, drawn
forward with intention rather than command.
Her eyes meet mine, steady and searching, free of judgement.
Patience settles in her gaze and awareness sharpened by years of
listening for what others leave unsaid.
I've read through your submissions.
She begins, her tone wrapped in velvet.
There's a weight to your work that doesn't come from style.
It presses in from somewhere deeper, and it doesn't appear to
be something recently acquired. She waits, not for confirmation,
only for breath. I hold her gaze, spine upright,
hands calm in my lap. When I speak, the words shape,
each one a piece of something long rehearsed.
I've spent time with counsellors starting when I was 7.
Miss Yarrow listens without shifting her stance.
Her posture doesn't tilt towards sympathy or away from
discomfort. She accepts the answer.
As it stands, I still check in. I've learned how to manage most
of it. I add each syllable, measured,
not guarded, but carefully placed.
She nods without ceremony. The gesture neither dismisses
what I've shared nor pries into what I withhold.
She gives space to the answer, letting it rest between us.
If that changes, she. Says.
You won't need permission to say so.
She steps aside, gathers nothing further, as though the
conversation was never meant for record, only for receiving.
I rise slowly, shoulders drawn close, the notebook tucked
beneath my arm. The door creaks on its hinges as
I open it, spilling me into the hallway where the scent of dust
and old paper lingers longer than expected.
James stands outside the annex doorway, his expression bright
with something already in motion, sleeves shoved halfway
up his forearms. One hand grips A granola bar,
the other already reaching toward me in triumph.
Well, look who emerged from the land of literary suffering.
He declares, his grin crooked and immediate.
I was about to send in a rescue team armed with sarcasm and soft
pretzels. He steps forward and without
hesitation, pulls me into a gentle hug.
The contact catches me off guard, not unwelcome, only
unpracticed. My arms stay at my sides,
fingers curling slightly inward, unsure of the distance or its
meaning. His hold is warm but brief,
careful in pressure, never insistent.
He asked for nothing, never teases me for the stillness.
Ioffer in return. When he steps back, he does so
casually, his hand brushing mine before retreating into his
hoodie pocket. Now you're officially blessed by
the patron St. of second hand hoodies and C minus effort.
He says. Your immunity to unsolicited
hallway conversations just went up by 50%.
Before I can reply, he glances at the clock and winces.
If I Sprint across the quad in under 90 seconds, I can still
fake a stomach ache and dodge participation points.
He starts to turn but halts, glancing over his shoulder with
something quieter in his eyes. You good?
I meet his gaze for only a moment, then nod.
Measured, Intentional enough. Come on, he says.
Tammy's already under the tree lunch calls and I brought sour
straws, blue kind, you know, for dignity.
We fall into step together, the silence behind us folding away,
nothing left unsettled. 12:25 PM Friday, September 13th lunch.
Maple tree. The Maple spreads a wide net of
shade across the lawn, its branches creaking softly in the
breeze. Tammy already sprawled on the
blanket, one leg folded under her, the other stretched toward
the edge where her boots catch the sun.
She's halfway through a quinoa salad, sunglasses pushed into
her curls, eyes fixed on Steven as he gestures with a fork mid
sentence. He sits beside her, one arm
braced behind him, the other hovering above his lunch
container, something packed in tidy glass, clearly homemade.
His jacket is slung off to the side, sleeves rolled to the
elbow, collar open at the throat.
When James and I approach, Stevens gaze finds mine long
before Tammy notices. His eyes remain steady, too
steady. No flicker of surprise or
welcome, only the charge, stillness of someone recognizing
A disruption he hadn't prepared for.
Tammy lifts her chin and greeting, cheerful and breezy.
Hey. We saved your spot, your bananas
already claiming territory, James.
James drops onto the blanket with theatrical flair.
That banana fought bravely. Let it rest in honor.
I settle beside him, knees folding in close.
The fabric beneath my hands carries the residual heat of sun
warmed earth. Stevens posture shifts by
degrees, a slight angling of his shoulder, a slower reach for his
fork, but his attention never fully returns to his food.
Tammy gestures mid story, looping the tail end of a
sentence back to him. Tell them about the party you
mentioned. He doesn't answer immediately.
His eyes remain fixed on my hands, which fumble briefly with
the crinkled wrapper of a sour straw.
TDX is hosting something this weekend.
He says eventually. Semi formal, some kind of
rooftop thing, mood lighting, real food.
Tammy's mouth curves in amusement.
That's progress. The last one involved glow
sticks and regret. James lifts his brow.
If nobody ends up in a fountain, can it even be called a frat
party? They're banning beer pong this
time. Tammy adds.
Allegedly. Steven glances at her, but only
for half a breath. Whatever expression he wore
before flattens into quiet, and once again his focus returns to
me. Tammy shifts, drawing one knee
up under her arm. You thinking about going Lily?
I press another fold into the wrapper, then still my fingers.
Oh, maybe, I say softly. I don't know.
She smiles, already halfway into the next step.
Then we're going shopping something easy.
A skirt, Boots. Nothing too structured unless
you want it, but no hoodies allowed.
I'm making that a rule. James lifts a piece of sandwich
crust in mock protest. Clothing tyranny before the
weekend. We've lost our way.
You own black jeans. You'll survive.
She replies without looking at him.
Steven doesn't speak. His food remains untouched, the
fork resting beside his container while his gaze returns
to me, each time more openly. James catches it.
His next joke falters before it reaches his mouth.
Tammy reaches for her thermos and checks the time.
Calculus and 20. I've got to swing by the
Commons. I left my binder on the printer
again. James sighs.
If you don't rescue it, someone's going to annotate it
with memes. Tammy rolls her eyes, but I
catch a faint smile as she shakes her head at him.
It wouldn't be the first time. I gather my things slowly,
careful not to tangle the blankets edge as I stand.
The sun has warmed the fabric, leaving a faint imprint along my
palm. Steven rises last, brushing the
back of his hand over the grass where he sat.
His attention lingers on my face, then drifts away.
We start walking, Tammy ahead, James beside her, recounting
something about a freshman who locked himself in a janitor's
closet trying to find the gym. I stay behind them.
Footsteps light the warmth of the airbrushing against my
sleeves. Stephen keeps pace beside me,
silent. His nearness carries a weight I
don't know how to hold. We reach the curve near the
lecture hall, the main doors ahead.
When Stephen steps falter. I glance sideways.
He veers off course, hand pressed to his backpack strap,
shoulders squared toward a different path.
He offers no reason, only distance.
James turns in time to catch the motion.
His voice quiets, gaze narrowing as Steven disappears.
Tammy doesn't look up from her phone.
He's not actually in this class, drops in sometimes if he's ahead
on his schedule. I think he likes the lecture.
The breeze lifts, brushing dried leaves across the walkway as we
cross beneath the overhang. James adjusts his bag but says
nothing more. I stepped through the threshold
last, unsure if anyone ever meant to fill the quiet I left
behind. 1:55 PM Friday, September 13th.
Advanced Calculus. Mathematical Physics.
The final minutes of lecture spiral towards zero with
mathematical inevitability. Professor Hatchett moves through
convergence tests and improper integrals with mechanical
rhythm, the dry erase marker trailing lines that squeak
faintly across the board. It's sent sharp beneath the buzz
of the lights. His hands move with crisp
economy, the sleeve of his jacket smudged with faint
streaks of blue where the marker dragged too close.
James's pen moves beside me, Half notes, half doodles.
A scribbled ghost emerges from a matrix.
A crude sine wave wears sunglasses.
Tammy leans over to sea, frowning at the sunglasses.
He grins. She tries to stay stern but
eventually shakes her head, lips twitching.
I barely write anything. My notebook lies open, margins
still marked by equations from last Tuesday's exam, the ones I
solved on instinct, the ones that linger across the room.
Jeff slouches 3 rows up, legs sprawled into the aisle.
He never looks back, but static radiates from him.
His presence hums with something sour, tense, expectant.
When the clock strikes 2, Hachette doesn't glance up.
He stops speaking, caps the marker, and places it on the
whiteboard ledge with the precision of someone resetting a
system. Mr. Willison, Miss Ross remains
seated. The rest of the class rises in
slow waves. Uncertain whispers float across
the rows, light and fast. Jeff rolls his eyes, slouches
further, and mutters something under his breath.
James hesitates beside me, but doesn't speak.
He slips his notebook into his bag and stands, giving my
shoulder the faintest brush before following the others out.
I stay seated. Hachette waits for the room to
empty before turning toward us. His coat is half buttoned, his
tie twisted at the knot. He doesn't bother adjusting
either. Miss Ross has been accepted into
the Year 2 Acceleration program. The words land harder than
expected. He offers them without preamble,
without invitation, an outcome delivered with the blunt
finality of a solved equation stripped of context or warmth.
Jeff makes a sound between a scoff and a choke.
You're kidding. She.
You were not selected. Heschet interrupts, gaze slicing
toward him. Your exam results lacked both
completeness and coherence. The decision is final.
But. I'm not entertaining appeals.
You may leave. Jeff glares at me once before
storming past his knee, clipping the back of a chair hard enough
to send it skidding. The legs screech across the
floor, jarring and metallic. The door slams behind him a
moment later. Hachette turns back to me,
adjusting his glasses with two fingers.
His stare sharpens. If you remain in this track, you
will complete both the 1st and 2nd year curriculum
concurrently. There will be no accommodations,
no missed assignments, no excuses.
My breath catches at the back of my throat, but I hold it still.
I expect nothing less than fluency.
He continues. If you fall behind, even by a
thread, you will be removed from the program and returned to
standard progression. Understood.
I start to nod, then stop. I understand.
I say, my voice steadier than I expected.
I'll keep up. He watches me, waiting for the
light of surface. When it doesn't, he turns,
leaving the silence intact. The room feels colder as I rise.
My pulse thunders quietly in my ears, but my hands stay loose.
Fear wants to speak, to plead for time or softness.
I feel the silence, choose the storm I already survived.
At the back of the room, a figure stands near the exit.
Stephen. He leans against the wall, arms
folded, unreadable. I never heard him come in.
He watches me, not with intent to follow, not with expectation,
but with a stillness impossible to walk through.
I pass him without a word, and he remains silent.
Two O 7:00 PM Friday, September 13th hallway Outside, brightness
hits first. The fluorescent buzz of the
corridor, the sharp white glare. Everything feels louder than it
is. James waits near the benches,
pacing. The moment he sees me, he lifts
his brows, ready to ask. I got in.
I say quietly. His face breaks into a wide
grin. You did.
I nod once, the wait finally beginning to settle.
I don't know if I can do it, though.
It's both years, all of it. No margin, no time.
James steps closer, his voice softer now.
Lily, you solved 200 questions in under an hour.
You've already done the impossible.
I shake my head. That doesn't mean I can keep
doing it. It means you belong here.
He says I steady. And you don't have to carry it
alone. His words press against
something inside me I didn't know was bracing.
He's about to say more, but the door behind me bangs open.
Jeff. His steps come fast, too loud
against the floor, jaw clenched tight.
You think you deserve that spot? He snaps.
You think you earned it. I freeze shoulders tensing.
She didn't take anything from you.
James says, stepping between us. Jeff moves forward.
She's nothing but a sympathy case.
James squares himself. Do you want to say that again?
Jeff's hands clench at his sides, fury vibrating beneath
his skin. He opens his mouth.
A hand grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him back, hard.
Steven. He stands between them now, one
arm across Jeff's chest, the other shoved forward to hold him
back. His voice doesn't rise, but the
tone cuts clean. Walk it off.
Jeff's eyes flash. Stay out of it.
Then don't act like a child. Stephen says through his teeth.
They argue in low tones, words too sharp to be gentle, too
quiet to echo. James leans toward me, hand on
my back. Come on, we've got lab.
I nod. He pulls me away, leaving the
sounds of Stephen and Jeff behind us.
I don't look back, but the storm inside me stirs a tremor that
refuses to quiet.