The bells had long stopped ringing by the time we returned to the halls.
Lillian brushed a bit of stray pink hair behind her ear, our hands still linked between us, fingers loosely intertwined as though neither of us had noticed we hadn't let go yet. She didn't say much—just stayed close, like a quiet warmth at my side, as we passed groups of students chatting or heading to their next activity.
And for all the noise around us, it felt strangely distant.
Something about this morning lingered.
I could still feel the imprint of Camille's eyes on me, the weight of Diana's lingering touch, the silent knowledge in Tessa's gaze. And Claire's laughter still echoed like sunbeams behind my ribs.
It was getting harder to pretend I hadn't noticed. That I wasn't aware.
That I didn't care.
Because I did.
Gods, I really did.
"Back to the garden?" Lillian asked, her voice light but her thumb brushing over the side of my hand in a way that made it impossible not to notice how close she was.
I gave her a small smile. "You really never get tired of flowers."
Her lips curved. "I get tired of things. Just not ones I love."
I looked away quickly, heat prickling my cheeks. "You say that kind of stuff too easily."
She only hummed, pleased with herself.
The familiar hedges of the Gardening Club came into view, the soft scent of lavender and trimmed soil greeting us before we even reached the gate. Claire was already there, bent over a bed of irises with a determined frown, muttering about spacing ratios like the world depended on it.
She looked up and waved a trowel at us with dramatic flair. "You're late, and these irises are judging me!"
"They're flowers, Claire," I said, deadpan.
"They have eyes, Sera. Judgy ones," she insisted. "Anyway, where were you two? Secret garden date? Did you kiss? Should I leave?"
Lillian only smiled sweetly as she knelt beside a set of violets. "You're welcome to leave any time, Claire. But I'll be keeping Sera for the next hour."
I gave her a flat look, but Claire just narrowed her eyes with mock suspicion. "You're all getting way too bold lately."
"You love it," came Tessa's voice as she entered behind us, quiet and clipped as always, the door closing softly behind her.
Claire tilted her head dramatically. "I do. But that's not the point."
Tessa's lips twitched just slightly as she passed me a fresh stack of garden notes without a word. Our fingers brushed for half a second—long enough to make me notice the way her gaze lingered.
I cleared my throat and turned away, letting my focus fall on the freshly watered plants. Maybe if I buried myself in hydrangea pruning, the flush in my cheeks would fade.
But it didn't help that as I bent down, Lillian brushed a fallen leaf from my shoulder with slow fingers.
Or that Claire leaned in a bit too close with her usual "innocent" grin.
Or that Tessa remained quiet, steady, always watching.
"Why do I feel like I'm in the middle of something," I muttered.
Lillian gave me a look, all innocence and silk. "What could you possibly mean, Sera?"
Claire blinked. "It's not like we're all into you or anything."
Tessa added, dryly, "That would be ridiculous."
I stood up abruptly, the tips of my ears burning. "You're all impossible."
They just smiled.
—
By the time the sun was slipping lower into the sky, casting golden ribbons across the garden walls, the others had filtered out one by one. Tessa left without a word, brushing dirt off her gloves. Claire called over her shoulder that she'd see me at lunch tomorrow—"Unless I catch you making out behind the greenhouse or something, no judgment."
That left me alone with Lillian again, the two of us seated quietly on the garden bench, our shadows stretching long before us.
She was humming softly. A lullaby, I realized, one I vaguely remembered from childhood. She stopped when she noticed me watching her.
"Sorry," she said, though she didn't sound it.
"Don't be."
A quiet fell again, soft and comfortable. But underneath it, I felt something stir. A question. A pull.
"Lillian," I said slowly.
She turned her head slightly, just enough for the sun to catch in her green eyes.
"If I left… someday. Not soon. Just… someday. Would you hate me for it?"
She was quiet for a long moment. I almost regretted asking.
Then she reached over and gently curled her fingers around mine again.
"No," she whispered. "I'd miss you, selfishly. But hate you? Never."
I looked down at our hands.
"And if I… wrote?"
She smiled. "Then I'd write back."
And that was all she said.
But I felt it then—how much I mattered. How much they all cared. And how much it would break me to leave, even if I knew, deep down, that the day would come.
I rested my head against her shoulder and let the moment linger.
Because something was changing.
But not yet.
Not just yet.
Eventually, dusk painted the sky in deep hues of lavender and rose, the fading sunlight filtering softly through the garden leaves and casting patterns over the cobblestone paths. Reluctantly, we stood, stretching stiff limbs and sharing a lingering glance before turning to make our way back toward the main building.
The hallways had grown quiet, bathed in the gentle glow of enchanted lanterns. The usual bustle had settled into a soft murmur behind closed doors. Walking quietly, shoulder to shoulder with Lillian, I found comfort in the simplicity of her presence.
But as we reached the dormitory corridors, we heard familiar, hushed voices—animated and urgent—coming from a small alcove just ahead. Lillian glanced at me, eyebrows raised subtly, and we both stepped closer, curiosity piqued.
"You're absolutely sure?" came Camille's unmistakably soft, careful voice. Even lowered, it carried a distinct air of composure.
"Positive," Diana replied in a quiet murmur, her voice sharp and decisive. "My father sent word. Something's shifted politically, something significant. I can feel it."
We turned the corner gently, making our presence known before stepping into view. Camille and Diana both looked up immediately, startled expressions quickly fading into more controlled masks as they realized it was us.
Diana exhaled, posture relaxing just slightly, as she brushed a golden curl back behind her ear. "Sera, Lillian. Good timing, actually."
Camille nodded, her blue eyes calm yet quietly intense. "There might be something serious developing outside the academy."
I felt the earlier peace of the day slowly slip through my fingers, replaced by that familiar, subtle tension. "How serious?"
Diana hesitated only for a brief moment. "Serious enough that we should pay attention. It involves several noble families. A shift in power."
"Not another crisis, I hope," Lillian sighed softly, concern flickering across her features.
"Hopefully not," Camille replied, thoughtful. "But caution is wise. Given recent events, vigilance seems appropriate."
I crossed my arms, anxiety creeping softly back into my chest. "Should we warn the professors?"
"Evelyn and Ms. Roselle already know," Diana said calmly, "My father informed them personally. They're handling the academy side of things."
"Then we'll wait," Lillian offered softly. "Together."
Camille tilted her head, gaze softening briefly as she met my eyes. "Agreed. But we should all stay aware."
There was a silence, brief but heavy, the shadow of uncertainty brushing over us once more.
Diana, ever perceptive, noticed immediately and stepped closer, her voice gentler now. "Let's not overthink it tonight. It's been a long enough day."
She reached forward, her fingers lightly touching mine for a fleeting moment. "We'll handle whatever comes. Like we always have."
I nodded slowly, comforted by her confidence, even if my own remained shaky. "I trust you."
Camille offered a soft smile, reaching to gently squeeze Lillian's shoulder as she passed. "Try to rest tonight. Both of you."
"We'll do our best," Lillian assured quietly, returning Camille's warmth with a grateful look.
As Diana and Camille walked away, disappearing gracefully down the corridor, Lillian turned to me once again, her green eyes searching mine carefully.
"Are you alright?"
"Honestly? I don't know," I admitted softly, my voice quiet in the empty hallway. "It feels like we barely got a moment to breathe, and now..."
She reached for my hand again, squeezing gently. "I know."
She didn't try to reassure me with empty words. Instead, she simply stood close, sharing warmth and silent support.
After a moment, I exhaled softly, feeling the knot in my chest loosen slightly. "We should head back."
She nodded softly, fingers gently threaded through mine as we made our way toward our dorms. The silence this time wasn't heavy or strained—just thoughtful, introspective.
When we reached my door, she paused, lingering as if reluctant to leave.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she whispered softly, her eyes gentle and sincere.
"You will," I promised quietly, feeling a warmth rising again, despite the uncertainty lingering in the air. "Thank you, Lillian."
"For what?"
"For everything. For today. For staying."
She smiled, her eyes bright with affection. "Always."
As the door softly closed between us, I leaned back against it, listening to her gentle footsteps fade into silence. Alone again, the quiet of my room felt louder somehow, the echoes of the day's tenderness mixing softly with the new tension humming beneath the surface.
Everything was shifting. I could feel it deep within myself—a quiet but powerful current pulling me toward something unknown.
And yet, as I finally slipped into bed, letting exhaustion pull me into dreams, it wasn't fear I felt strongest.
It was hope.
Hope that, no matter what was coming, we'd face it together.
One way or another.