3. Ally

Chapter 3

Ally

T he hum of River Styx enveloped Kara and me, a mix of low conversations and the clinking of coffee cups. The cafe was cozy, almost too familiar, with its mismatched furniture and the scent of freshly ground beans hanging in the air. Students lounged on faded couches, their laptops open, while a barista in a beanie pulled shots of espresso behind the counter.

I sat across from Kara, pushing a salad around my plate. My stomach twisted with anxiety, making food unappealing. Kara's eyes sparkled with excitement as she chattered about the upcoming awards ceremony.

"Can you believe it? Morgan's going to be there! I honestly thought he was going to say no. You know how he is. It's such a big deal," she said, her voice animated.

I nodded absently, trying to focus on her words but feeling the dread creeping in. I knew what was coming.

"And you know," she continued, leaning forward conspiratorially, "our photographer bailed last minute."

I felt my chest tighten. I should've known this was where the conversation was headed.

"I was thinking," Kara said, her eyes locking onto mine with that persuasive glint I knew too well. "You could fill in. You're amazing with a camera, and it's a perfect opportunity."

I bit my lip, the taste of anxiety bitter on my tongue. "Kara..."

"Come on, Ally," she urged. "It’s just one night. You can handle it."

Her words felt like needles pricking at old wounds. I glanced around the café, seeking distraction from the worn posters on the walls and the comforting chaos of student life.

My heart sank, the familiar weight of dread settling in my chest. I shook my head, trying to ward off the panic clawing at my insides.

"I can’t, Kara. I’m sorry, I just… can’t," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

I looked down at my salad, feeling the tightness in my throat. The thought of seeing him again—of seeing Thomas—sent a shiver through me. It had been months since that night at the Masquerade, and every memory of it was etched painfully in my mind. The idea of facing him again felt like ripping open wounds that hadn’t even begun to heal.

"Kara, you don’t understand," I managed to say, my voice breaking. "It’s not just about the photography."

Kara leaned forward, her expression softening. "I know why you don’t want to do it. It’s because of what happened at the Masquerade, right?"

Her words hung in the air, and I felt my chest tighten further. Kara knew bits and pieces of that night, but not the full extent. Not all those parts I kept locked away, buried deep where no one could see.

I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. "It's more than that," I whispered, barely able to meet her eyes.

Kara reached across the table and placed her hand over mine, her touch warm and reassuring. "Ally, you don't have to do this alone. Whatever it is, you can talk to me."

Her sincerity pierced through my defenses. I felt a lump form in my throat as I wrestled with the urge to finally let some of the pain out.

"It's complicated," I said, my voice trembling. "Thomas... he’s…"

Kara nodded slowly, her gaze unwavering. "Yeah. I know you have a history. But why don't you tell me what's really going on?"

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my secrets pressing down on me. The memories of that night with Thomas—the brief escape from my heartache over Nick, the unexpected pregnancy, and the devastation after that—flooded back.

Kara reached across the table and squeezed my hand gently. "I do understand more than you think," she said softly. "But maybe this could be a step forward? Maybe it could help?"

I pulled my hand back and wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the tears prick at the corners of my eyes. "It’s too much," I whispered. "Seeing him... it brings everything back."

Kara sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I’m sorry, Ally. I didn’t mean to push you."

The cafe’s noise seemed to swell around us as if mocking the silence that fell between us. My mind raced with images—Thomas’s intense gaze, the way he’d looked at me that night, the brief glimmer of something real before everything shattered.

"I just thought it might be a good opportunity," Kara added softly.

"I know," I replied, wiping at an errant tear before it could fall. "But right now, I need to focus on getting through each day without falling apart."

Kara nodded slowly. "Okay. But if you change your mind..."

I forced a small smile for her sake. "Thanks for understanding."

She squeezed my hand once more before letting go completely. The conversation shifted then, moving to safer topics—the latest assignments for our classes and Kara's newest journalism project—but a part of me remained stuck on what could have been.

As we talked, I felt a mix of relief and regret swirl within me like an unpredictable storm.

Kara's phone rang, its sharp tone cutting through our conversation. She frowned, quickly clicking it off.

"What's that?" I asked, curiosity piqued.

"Oh, it's nothing," she said, her tone dismissive.

I pursed my lips, not convinced. "Kara..."

She sighed, setting her phone down. "Look, don't worry about it. The Detroit Serpents want me to send over a portfolio. They're looking for a new blogger or sports journalist or whatever."

My heart sank. I knew how much this meant to her. She’d been dreaming of an opportunity like this for years.

"I was actually going to use this spread on Morgan as the main point of the portfolio," she continued, her voice tinged with frustration. "I remember what happened that night at the Masquerade. How both Nick and Morgan lost their shit. How you got in the middle..." She shuddered, her eyes clouding with the memory. "Morgan lost it even more. I didn't think that was possible."

I sucked in a breath, guilt clutching my chest like a vise. The memory of that chaotic night flashed through my mind—Nick's anger, Thomas's outburst, and my desperate attempt to keep things from spiraling further.

"But don't worry about it," Kara said quickly, sensing my distress. "I don't want to put you in any situation you don't want to be in."

I looked at her, seeing the hope and anxiety flickering in her eyes. She was graduating soon, just like me. This was her shot at something big, something she’d worked so hard for.

"Kara," I started, my voice wavering. "I... I know how important this is for you."

She shook her head. "It's okay, Ally. Really."

But it wasn’t okay. Not to me. I couldn’t stand the thought of letting her down, especially when she’d always been there for me.

"I'll do it," I said suddenly, surprising myself as much as her.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you sure?"

I nodded, though my heart pounded fiercely in my chest. "Yeah... I'll do it."

Kara’s face lit up with relief and gratitude. "Thank you so much, Ally! You don’t know how much this means to me."

I forced a smile, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. The thought of facing Thomas again was terrifying, but maybe—just maybe—it could be a step toward healing.

As Kara launched into plans for the event, excitement bubbling in her voice, I steeled myself for what lay ahead. This was for her—and maybe even for me, too.

I returned to my dorm room later that afternoon, the weight of my decision pressing down on me like a lead blanket. I dropped my bag on the bed and leaned against the door, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked haunted, dark circles marring the skin beneath them. How was I supposed to face him again?

My mind spun with memories of that night—the connection, the intensity, and the heartbreak that followed. Thomas's touch, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world. And then the aftermath, the confusion, and the pain of losing something I hadn't even known I wanted so desperately until it was gone.

I ran a hand through my hair, tugging at the ends as if that would somehow ground me. Seeing Thomas again would bring everything back. The grief I hadn't fully processed, and the tangled mess of feelings I still harbored for him. It felt like opening a wound that had barely begun to heal.

But it was inevitable now. Kara needed me, and I couldn't let her down. I had to prepare myself for whatever came next, no matter how much it hurt.

I pushed off from the door and moved to my desk, sitting down heavily in the chair. My camera sat there, a reminder of what I needed to focus on—the job at hand. If I could just concentrate on taking photos, maybe I could get through this without falling apart.

My phone buzzed with a text from Kara:

Thanks again for doing this. You’re amazing.

I sighed and typed back:

No problem.

Lying back on my bed, I stared up at the ceiling. My thoughts drifted back to Thomas—his eyes when he accepted his award, the little dimple that popped whenever he smiled. The tension had been palpable, even from a distance. How would it be when we were face-to-face?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This wasn't just about Kara or even about Thomas—it was about me finding a way to move forward, to confront my past rather than hide from it.

Rolling over, I grabbed my journal from the nightstand and opened it to a blank page. Writing had always helped me sort through my thoughts when they became too overwhelming.

With pen in hand, I started jotting down everything that came to mind—the fears, the memories, and most importantly, what I needed to do to get through this.

Because no matter how daunting it seemed, facing Thomas again was something I had to do—for Kara, for myself, and maybe even for some semblance of closure.

I put down the pen and closed the journal with a sigh. This was just another step in a long journey of healing—one that wouldn't be easy but was necessary all the same.

I pushed the journal away, feeling the weight of my thoughts settle uncomfortably in my chest. Grabbing my laptop, I opened it and navigated to the folder with the photos from yesterday's shoot. The thumbnails loaded slowly, each tiny image a snapshot of moments I could never have.

I clicked on one of the photos—a close-up of the baby's tiny hand curled around its mother's finger. The soft lighting highlighted the delicate wrinkles in the baby's skin, and there was an innocence there that tugged at something deep inside me.

Another photo showed the baby cradled in Jamie's arms, gazing down with expressions of pure love and awe. Her eyes shone with a pride and protectiveness that made my heart ache.

A third picture captured a candid moment—the baby yawning, its tiny mouth open wide as if it were surprised by its own existence. Jamie laughed softly in the background, her joy evident even in this frozen frame.

My vision blurred as tears welled up, spilling over onto my cheeks. My chest tightened painfully, a familiar but unwelcome sensation. It had been months since the loss, but the grief still clung to me like a shadow I couldn't shake.

I slammed the laptop shut and pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears. "Stop," I whispered to the empty room. "Just… stop… feeling this."

It didn't make sense. The baby had only been inside me for ten days—ten days of hope and possibility that had been ripped away before they could fully take root. And yet, here I was, still drowning in sorrow as if I had lost something much more tangible.

My heart squeezed painfully at the thought. I wiped my face with trembling hands, frustration mingling with my sadness. No more wallowing. I needed to do something—anything—to break free from this cycle of grief.

Deciding on action, I stood up and grabbed my gym bag from the closet. The gym on campus might offer a temporary escape, a way to channel all this pent-up emotion into something physical.

I changed into workout clothes quickly and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. With one last glance at the closed laptop on my desk, I took a deep breath and headed out the door, determined to find some semblance of relief in motion.

The gym's fluorescent lights flickered as I stepped inside. Thankfully, it was empty. Most students were probably off getting ready for graduation, their minds far from the echoing quiet of this space. The solitude felt like a gift.

I made my way to the treadmills, each machine lined up in silent readiness. I selected one in the middle, setting my water bottle in the holder and draping my towel over the side. I plugged in my headphones and scrolled through my playlist until I found blink-182. Their upbeat rhythms were perfect for drowning out my thoughts.

The treadmill whirred to life beneath me. I started with a slow jog, easing into a rhythm that matched the music's tempo. With each step, I felt the weight of my emotions begin to lift, replaced by the steady beat of my heart and the pulse of the music.

I increased the speed, my feet pounding harder against the rubber belt. The world outside the gym windows blurred into insignificance. My focus narrowed to the display in front of me, tracking each mile, each calorie burned.

As All The Small Things blared in my ears, I pushed myself harder, my pace quickening until I was running at full speed. My lungs burned with every breath, a fiery reminder of my limits, but I didn't slow down.

The music grew louder as I turned up the volume, blocking out everything except for the pounding of my feet and the lyrics filling my head. My body screamed for me to stop, but I ignored it, pushing through the pain.

I ran until sweat drenched my clothes and my muscles felt like they were on fire. Each step became a test of willpower, each breath a challenge to overcome. The gym's emptiness seemed to amplify every sound—the slap of my sneakers against the treadmill belt, the labored breathing that echoed in my ears.

With one final burst of energy, I pushed myself past what I thought possible until my legs gave out and I hit the emergency stop button. The treadmill slowed to a halt beneath me as I bent over, gasping for air.

I yanked out my headphones and let them dangle around my neck while leaning against the machine for support. My lungs burned with every inhale, but there was a strange sense of relief that came with it—a momentary escape from everything that weighed on me.

But it wasn't enough.

It was never enough.