To The Framing Nook, 47 Pine Crescent

The alarm’s screech drills into my skull.

I have to get up now if I want to get this over with.

I stretch, yawn gracelessly, try to run through today’s list.

But I can’t focus. The alarm is still wailing, and every nerve in my body tightens in protest. I’ll thrash the whole room like a maniac if it buzzes again.

Last night, I put the torture device known as ‘alarm clock’ on my desk to force myself out of bed.

I regret that now.

I kick off the blankets, stumble across the room, and slap it silent.

Finally.

I roll my jaw as I stand there, letting the quiet settle in. Feels sore. Must’ve been clenching again in my sleep. The dentist calls it bruxism, says I should wear a night guard.

Yeah, sure.

I run through my list again, now that I can actually think.

Academic Adviser.

Financial Aid.

Registrar.

Who knew dropping out of college would be this much work? I thought I could just… stop showing up.

Great plan, Brian. Pick what feels effortless, then act surprised when it doesn’t lead anywhere.

I should’ve chosen something useful, something that could actually turn into a career. Instead, I went with what came easy, convinced that being good at it was enough. Turns out, it doesn’t work like that.

I head to the kitchen without turning on the lights, just feeling my way to the coffee machine. One button press, and it’s done.

While it brews, I take a shower. The hot water doesn’t lift the weight on my chest, but at least it wakes me up.

Back in my room, I grab some clothes from the valet stand. Worn once this week. Good enough. I pull them on, then open the window. The cool air cuts through the leftover fog in my brain.

I check my pockets for my wallet. Nothing. I dig through a pair of jeans from two days ago and find it there. So I went out yesterday without it. Nice.

There’s twenty bucks inside. Should be fine.

Back in the kitchen, I dump sugar and way too much coffee into a mug, as I think about last night’s deep dive into Chicago’s cost of living.

I’ve saved enough to last six months, but I’ll find a job before then. Real estate, insurance, sales, whatever. I could end up flipping burgers, for all I care.

The nausea hits, so half the mug goes down the drain. That’s when I notice the envelope with Dad’s ‘emergency money.’

I count it. Almost a thousand.

Dad’s been gone for months at a time since I was twelve. Work takes him all over the country. A few years ago, Mom started going with him sometimes, working as his assistant. When they’re both away, I’m holding down the fort.

I take the envelope to my room and shove it in a drawer, but not before pocketing a couple of Jacksons.

At the door, I do a quick check. Wallet. Phone. Keys are already in my hand.

Time to get this over with.

***

The Academic Adviser’s office sits in the main hall of the school complex, a building of red brick and white bow windows.

It used to calm me, but now all I feel looking at it is the bitterness of realizing I’ve chosen a dead-end course of study.

The sign reads Mrs. Schmidt, Academic Adviser.

I head in and find her already at her desk. It’s neatly arranged but nearly buried under papers, pamphlets, and what look like old school registers. A tangled-cord phone sits beside a monitor covered in sticky notes scribbled with extension numbers. Probably passwords too.

She folds her hands. “What can I help you with?”

The chair I’m sitting in suddenly feels uncomfortable, like it’s physically manifesting the frustration I’ve been carrying around.

“I want to withdraw,” I say.

It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. Thought it plenty, but never actually voiced it. Mrs. Schmidt doesn’t react, which makes me wonder how often she hears this. Do the others who quit lose as much sleep over it as I have?

“If it’s financial, we can check your eligibility for aid—”

“No,” I cut her off, “money’s not the problem. It’s for personal reasons,” I explain.

I catch a glimpse of her face and the expressions she’s flashing at me:

FLARED NOSTRILS. TIGHTENED LIPS.

Anger.

She didn’t like the interruption.

When she speaks again, her tone is measured.

“If it’s medical, you can take a leave of absence.” A slight tilt of her head. Like she’s giving me permission to speak.

I give her my most polite, insincere smile. “No, Mrs. Schmidt. Not medical either.”

I half-expect her to push for more, but she just pulls a stack of stapled forms from a drawer.

“Fill these out in duplicate. Both copies need to be signed and sealed by the Registrar’s Office. Bring one back to me.”

I grab the papers and stand. “Thank you, Mrs. Schmidt. Have a nice day.”

She nods but doesn’t say it back.

I push open the door, already feeling lighter. One step closer to being done with this place.

The Registrar’s Office is in the West Wing, which means a long walk across campus. The sooner I get these forms in order, the sooner this whole rigmarole is over.

Campus is busy today, but I walk more than half the way without seeing a single person I know. Plenty of students around, just none familiar.

I’m almost at the West Wing when I finally spot someone I recognize. Some guy from my Social Psychology class, whose name I always get wrong. It’s either Melvin or Marvin, so I go with a safe, “’Sup, man?”

“Sky,” he replies, just as vague.

I wonder if he’s also not sure whether I’m Brian or Brad.

The sunlight’s sharp today, and it takes my eyes a second to adjust when I step into the building. I walk past the wayfinding column before I even notice it, then backtrack a few steps and scan the list.

Floor 2, left.

I take the stairs two at a time and feel winded by the top.

Am I out of shape, or just sleep-deprived?

Guess I’ll find out when I finally get a full night of actual rest.

I turn left and check the signs as I go: Staff Council, Human Resources, Study Abroad... Registrar.

A decal on the glass door says the office is open Monday to Thursday, 8 AM to 2 PM.

I blink. Read it again.

Monday to T-H-U-R-S-D-A-Y.

Today’s freakin’ Friday.

I angrily roll the papers in my hand and spread my arms in frustration.

Just a few more days of waiting, of half-sleep and dragging myself through the motions.

I head back to my car, still stewing, trying to think of a way to shake this off, when my phone rings.

Meredith.

I almost let it go to voicemail. Almost. But then I pick up.

“Mer,” I say.

“Hey, stranger. I haven’t heard from you in two days. Is everything okay?”

I take a deep breath as I put the irreparably rolled-up papers in the glove compartment.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. “Just been busy.” Lie number two.

Meredith’s the person I trust most, which makes it worse that I haven’t told her I want to quit school and move to Illinois.

I guess I’m not ready for her to talk me out of it. And she could. She’s got a talent for rearranging my brain without me noticing.

“If you say so…” she replies, clearly not buying it.

I force a smile, even though she can’t see it. She’ll hear it in my voice. Psychology 101.

“Wanna meet me at Java’s?”

“Okay. Are you picking me up?”

Her place is on the way home, but I’m already here, and Java’s is just around the corner. No point making a round trip.

“Nah, I’m in town for errands. But I’ll drive you back after.”

“Yeah, okay. See you in half an hour, then.”

“’Kay. Bye.”

I guess Java’s is where I’m going, then.

***

I spot Meredith walking toward me from the bus station, her twists catching the light with every step.

She moves with that calm kind of ease that turns heads without meaning to, like the world makes space for her, and she’s never in a rush to take it.

She’s got on these oversized sunglasses that cover half her face, but it doesn’t matter—I’d still know her walk anywhere. Meredith always has this steady presence, like she could cut through any kind of nonsense without even opening her mouth.

“You planning to audition for a spy movie?” I ask when she reaches me.

She pushes the shades down her nose just enough to smirk at me.

“Better than looking like someone’s moody uncle.”

At the coffee house, we grab a table by the window. I sit down across from her and remind myself to pretend everything’s fine.

Unlike me, Meredith changes her order every day, so, for a solid minute, she carefully reads the menu on the sign above the counter to find what she’s in the mood of having today.

“Didn’t they have that sort of shake with the sprinkles on top?” she asks, wiggling her fingers like she’s casting a spell, clearly unimpressed with the current options.

“They probably took it off when the kindergarten across the street moved to the other block,” I say.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you implying that’s a thing only a kid would order?”

The wiggling has turned to a single threatening finger pointed at me. I nod. “Yup. The fact that it has sprinkles on top says it all,” I emphasize.

Meredith snorts. “When did you transform into this grumpy old man?”

I lean back in my chair, deadpan. “First I was a moody uncle, now I’m a grumpy old man. What’s next, ancient wizard?”

She rolls her eyes, lips twitching.

“Fine, I’ll have a latte. But you’re paying, since you took the fun out of me with your grumpiness,” she says.

“Fair.”

I head for the counter with both our orders in mind, running through ways to slip into conversation later that I’m quitting college and moving states. Something will just come to me.

With extra caution, I bring our cups to the table.

I tear open two sugar packets and empty them into my cappuccino, stirring slowly. I give the bottom a light tap with the spoon to make sure no crystals escaped. I hate when the last sip is sweeter than the rest.

I take a tentative sip, half expecting the nausea from earlier to come back. It doesn’t.

“You know what I haven’t done in a while?” I ask.

Meredith looks at me.

“Ice-skating. We used to go to that ice rink down Parkview Lane, remember? Maybe we could go this weekend. I’m sure I can still find my old ice skates somewhere.”

“Nah,” Mer says as she shakes her head, “That place closed down years ago. I drive past it when I go visit Gramms and Gramps.”

“Such a shame,” I say.

I liked that place.

I wouldn’t have minded going with Meredith on my last night here before leaving, where I would finally reveal to her that I was moving to another State.

Being in a place where we spent so many happy moments together, especially during our teenage years, might’ve softened the blow.

I’ll find another place.

After all, one of the perks of being friends with someone for so long is that you’ve got a whole list of our places to choose from.

It’s a good thing that Meredith and I don’t share the same exact classes this semester, because if she was in the microexpressions course like I am, she’d spot the melancholy written all over my face.

Christ, I’m gonna miss her.

“What are we doing this weekend, then?” Meredith asks. “I heard Dean and Jet want to go to the lake.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Are they actually doing something or just sitting around and talking about doing something?”

She shrugs. “There was talk of renting a boat.”

I give her a look. “Have you ever seen those two operate anything more complicated than a microwave?”

“I’m guessing that’s a no from you.”

“They dragged me out on a sailboat once,” I say, already feeling the sunburned memory settle in. “It was traumatic. No one knew what the hell they were doing. Dean kept shouting ‘starboard’ like he knew what it meant. Never again.”

Meredith barely hides a grin. “So... picnic instead?”

That actually doesn’t sound half bad. My original plan involved a movie theater and as little human interaction as possible, but judging from the trailer drought lately, it’s not like there’s anything worth seeing. And I already know that if we go that route, Jet will spend the next hour lecturing us about some pretentious short film no one’s heard of. Something with subtitles and a title like Vainglorious and Hifalutin, directed by Mr. La-di-da himself.

“Yeah, picnic works,” I say. “As long as I can bring something that doesn’t need to be cooked.”

I glance down at my empty cup and realize how hungry I am all of a sudden. I stand. “Want a muffin?”

Mer waves me off without looking up.

By the time I come back, half my blueberry muffin is gone.

“Gee,” Meredith says with unveiled disgust when she sees me with chipmunk cheeks.

“Ftarvin’,” I reply with my mouth full.

She follows with her eyes the trail of crumbs that I’ve left on the white tiles of the floor, then comes the scorn. “Still living off frozen meals, granola bars, and Hot Pockets?”

I swallow. “Add drinkable yogurt and the list is complete.”

ONE-SIDED MOUTH RAISE

Contempt.

I don’t get this emotion from her.It’s not like she’s living on her own and has to cook every day. She lives with her parents and they do all the cooking.

And I’m not starving because I’m incapable of feeding myself. I just haven’t been in the mood to eat much lately. My appetite’s taken a hit with everything going on to put something in my stomach and keep it there.

“Lucky for you to have a fast metabolism,” she says.

It takes a full hour of chaotic group texting to figure out what we’re doing this weekend.

My suggestion to catch some live music gets shut down immediately by Dean and Jeremy, since, apparently, none of them can tolerate my taste.

“We’ll never find a compromise on that,” Meredith chimes in.

“You’re not much help,” I shoot back.

The deadlock finally breaks when Jeremy texts:

Jet: Just got a call from my landlord. They’re giving me the keys to my new apartment later tonight. I can move in tomorrow!

And that’s that. Decision made. We’re helping Jet move this weekend.

I don’t hate the idea simply because keeping myself busy physically is going to distract me from constantly thinking about what a failure I feel I am.

***

Once home, papers in my hand, I go straight to my bedroom and take my wallet out of my pocket, tossing it on my desk, where I sit.

I start filling the withdrawal form that Mrs. Schmidt gave me, looking at it for the first time.

It’s only one side with three mere sections with a couple of questions each.

‘General Information’, the easiest one, where I write down my name, student ID, address and phone number.

The second part is ‘Withdrawal Information’.

Under four checkboxes with already filled-out general reasons, a single line where I have to answer the question ‘Why are you withdrawing?’

I decide to skip this whole section and go fill the last one with clearings of my status of financial aid, loans, student accounts, and all that.

This is the section that is supposed to be countersigned by the Registrar’s Office that I have to postpone to Monday until the office opens again.

I sign the paper and leave it on my desk.

***

On Saturday, the drive over to Jet’s family home feels heavier than it should.

I’ve got Dean in the passenger seat cracking jokes about how many boxes a guy needs to have just to move into a small apartment, and Meredith in the back, silent, thinking deeply about whatever it is she thinks deeply about. It’s like we’re all there, but I’m not really feeling it.

As I’m driving, I hear the faint rumble of a nearby train, a reminder of how stuck I feel. The roads feel too familiar, yet each bump in the pavement reminds me of the distance I’m about to put between myself and this place I’ve called home.

When we get to Jet’s family house, he’s already pacing outside, arms moving like he’s conducting invisible traffic.

“Hey! Over here!” he calls, voice fast, energy barely contained. He waves us toward the porch where boxes are stacked in a chaotic mess. “We’ve gotta split this between your car and mine.”

Dean groans like Jet just asked him to lift a piano. I grab a box labeled kitchen stuff and carry it to my trunk. It’s heavier than it should be.

“How many cups does one guy need?” I call out. “You moving into an apartment or opening a café?”

Jet grins, juggling a box with fragile scrawled in huge red letters. “Variety, man. You gotta have options.”

Meredith chuckles, the beads in her hair clicking gently as she hoists a box marked random junk. “It’s like he’s moving in a whole family instead of just himself.”

Eventually, we get the last of his stuff packed. Jet hops into his car, adjusts the mirror, and runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to calm himself down.

“Okay, follow me!” he calls out, already backing out of the driveway.

***

The drive to Jet’s new place is only about ten minutes, and I find myself smiling as we make the final turn onto a secondary street.

It’s quiet, lined with simple homes and a few trees.

There it is: his new place. It’s a modest little apartment complex with a brick exterior and a couple of windows on either side of the door. Nothing flashy, but it has a certain charm to it.

As we pull into the parking lot, Jet parks close to the entrance, his excitement palpable. I follow suit, glancing over at him as he shuts off the engine.

“Well, here we are,” Jet says, half grinning, half stunned. “Home sweet home.”

The apartment is generic, a small two-bedroom space with beige walls that could use a splash of color. The living room is cramped, the kitchen barely bigger than a closet. Inside, the air is stale, filled with the scent of fresh paint and faint remnants of someone else’s life.

“This is it!” Jet exclaims, spreading his arms wide as if presenting a trophy. “Welcome to my humble abode!”

We start unloading boxes, and the rhythm of grab, carry, stack, gives me just enough room in my head to think about things I’d rather not. I know this is a big moment for Jet, a clean slate. But all I can think about is how I’ve got one coming too.

A slow kind of dread starts building in my chest, too quiet to name, too loud to ignore.

“Dude,” Jet calls out, wiping sweat from his brow. “You good?”

I glance over and nod. “Yeah. Just… tired, I guess.”

Meredith pauses with a box in her arms, eyes flicking to mine. She sets it down and brushes off her hands.

“Let’s take a break,” she says, steady and gentle, like she’s giving me permission. “We deserve a moment to breathe.”

But even with all of us here, even with the laughter and the teasing and the newness of it all, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s slipping away. Some part of this version of us is already gone. And I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back.