[Maddie’s POV]

The bus smells like stale coffee and lavender air freshener. I press my forehead against the window, watching the highway blur past, trying not to think about Emily’s face when I said I needed to do this alone.

Two hours in and I’ve second-guessed myself into seventeen different versions of catastrophe. Maybe Emily was right, Or maybe people actually change.

The landscape shifts to streets I recognize—the gas station where I bought slushies, the outdoor rink closer to the city center. Everything looks the same and completely foreign.

The bus station is unchanged—flickering lights, broken vending machine. I step off with my bag and spot my father. Dad, standing near the entrance, hands in his pockets.

When he sees me, he crosses over with his face transformed into something that looks like genuine happiness.

“Maddie.” He pulls me into a hug. His cologne is familiar in a way that makes my throat tight. “It’s so good to see you, sweetheart. How was the ride?”

“Long.” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Traffic wasn’t too bad. Gave me time to catch up on reading, so that’s something productive.”

“Good, good. Always making use of the time—that’s my girl.” He takes my bag. “Your mother’s been cooking all afternoon. She’s made enough food to feed the entire neighborhood.”

In the car, he cranks the heat with small and safe talk. The kind of conversation you have with someone you’re trying to impress. “So tell me about your classes. How are they treating you?”

“Fine, mostly. Professor Hudson is brutal with the pop quizzes,” I wince, “but I’m managing. She has this thing where if she thinks people aren’t doing the reading, she springs tests on us.”

“Hudson—that’s, uhh—” there’s a pause, and if he genuinely forgets that would be quite a comical situation. Except I’m not here to laugh, and he’s actually caring and attentive when he wants to be. “Biology, right?”

“Yeah, we’re deep in cellular respiration now. Nothing quite as thrilling as learning about mitochondria for the hundredth time.” I watch familiar streets slide past. “Though it’s more detailed. More about the actual chemical processes.”

He laughs. “I remember that from college. Spent a week trying to memorize the Krebs cycle before my final. Your mother had to quiz me every night, making flashcards. I was ready to give up, if not for Hanna.”

“Did you actually pass, or did Mom carry you through?”

“Barely squeaked by with a B-minus. But your mother’s a hell of a teacher. Patient, too, which I needed.” He signals. “And training? How’s that going? You must be gearing up for Regionals.”

There it is. The question that should lead to Emily, to our pairs routine, to everything we’re not discussing. But he leaves it open, neutral. I could mention her right now and watch his face shift.

Instead: “It’s going well. Coach has us on an intense schedule. Lots of run-throughs. The usual pre-competition grind where you start dreaming about your programs.”

“That’s great, Maddie. I know how hard you’ve been working.” He pulls into the driveway, turns to look at me. “I’m proud of you. For sticking with it after everything.”

The words sit between us, heavy with what he’s not saying. I nod because I don’t trust my voice.

The house looks identical—same beige siding, same seasonal wreath. Before I can reach for the handle, the door swings open.

My mother is already crying. She pulls me into her arms hard enough to knock the breath out. “Oh, Maddie. My baby. I’ve missed you so much.”

Guilt crashes over me. How long has it been? Two months? I stopped counting after my father cut me off.

“I missed you too, Mom. So much. I’m sorry it’s been so long, I just—school’s been completely insane and training is basically eating my entire life and I kept meaning to come visit but time just got away from me.” I babble, my hands clutching her shoulders.

She pulls back, framing my face with both hands. “Look at you. You’re too thin. Have you been eating enough? Getting sleep? Because you look exhausted, sweetheart, and I know how you get when you’re stressed, you stop taking care of yourself.”

“I’m eating fine, I promise. And sleeping—well, as much as any college student sleeps, which is probably not enough but also kind of par for the course.” I try for a smile that probably doesn’t quite land.

“It’s just been a lot with finals coming up and preparing for competition season. The usual chaos.”

“Come in, come in.” She guides me inside, still holding onto my arm like I might disappear. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made all your favorites—everything you used to request for birthday dinners, remember?”

The house smells incredible—garlic, tomatoes, something baking. My mother guides me to the kitchen, chattering about the meal. My father brings my bag upstairs. Everything is choreographed, a carefully constructed performance.

Dad brings up an article about college athletes. Nothing pointed, but I catch it—this is hard, you’re under pressure.

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