The rest of the week passed by in a fugue. Everything seemed muted—the colors, the conversations, the weather. It snowed fitfully every night, and every morning I’d wake up from blank dreams to bird feet imprinted on the windowsill. If Elisa ever noticed the watcher, she said nothing, though she did start closing the curtains at night. I was completely fine with that. The farther I was from the birds, the better. If only I could have gotten them to leave me alone during the day.

As for the dreams, well . . . I never took the crystal from under my pillow, and if I did dream, I didn’t remember. It felt like staring in the other direction while a train barreled down the rails, but I was oddly okay with it. I didn’t want to know when it was going to hit. I’d avoided the dreams and the shadows before. I could do it again.

I didn’t have any other choice.

With my thesis closing in, I didn’t hang out with Chris too often, unless he was joining me and Ethan in our work parties. And, seeing as they were presenting at the same time, they were often neck-deep in work and too distracted to talk in the first place. I only caught glimpses of Chris’s project, but I didn’t try to dig too deep. I didn’t have time.

It was strange, really, the way life kicked back into motion. It was like a buoy pulled from the sea: Something was missing, something had forever inextricably, immeasurably changed the fabric of life, but life just surged back in and resumed its process. Kids continued to stress. Concerts and open mics were planned. In the corner of my mind, in every class and every late-night homework session, there was a voice screaming that this wasn’t right, that something—someone—was missing, and things should have felt more different than they did.

But they didn’t. And that made everything feel like a waking dream.

Jonathan’s classes weren’t helping. Whether by design or by chance, we started discussing the rituals and folklore surrounding funerary rites in Nordic countries. If I never had to listen to another discussion on the Valkyries and Valhalla and Hel, I’d be happy. He hadn’t mentioned the study group again, and I didn’t broach the subject. I had more than enough on my plate with finishing my thesis and keeping the voices in my head from regaining control. Being normal was difficult in and of itself. I didn’t need to join a group of people exploring what I so vehemently wanted to avoid.

Every day I got just a little bit closer to being finished with my thesis. The cards I was displaying were all done, save for a few minor adjustments, and I knew I could have had the whole thing finished by now if I’d wanted. But I didn’t. I would lay out the cards on my bed and stare at them and panic or feel a small note of pride. I couldn’t bring myself to say they were done. I couldn’t do the finishing touches, and it took a lot of self-control not to throw them all out and claim that I needed to start over and put off my thesis until the very end. I kept finding things I wanted to change. I kept finding reasons to keep working.

Because I didn’t want to be done. I didn’t want to admit to myself that this was it. Every time I stared down at those paintings, it was like my school year was staring back. And the moment I said it was over, the moment I admitted the project was complete, the dream of Islington I’d been living in so contentedly would vanish.

I couldn’t let that go. Not just yet.

Not when I still had no idea what the dream that came after would be.

It was Friday night. I was lying on my back on Ethan’s bed, his head on my stomach and his stuffed bear, Dudley, under an arm. Some soft post-rock played from his computer, the light dim and drifting down from fairy lights strung in the corners of the room. Ethan’s roommate was out practicing, not that Kyle ever cared when I was over. We’d spent the entire night in the studio finishing up homework and trying to get in some thesis work. I was brain-dead, Ethan was frustrated, and this little ritual of cuddling and listening to music was what had gotten me through some of my most stressful moments at Islington. Trouble was, it wasn’t really working for me tonight.

I hated to admit it, but being in his room hurt. There was something so precious (a word I hated to use) about lying there listening to music and watching snow fall outside the window. The scent of his cologne, the heat of the radiator, the closeness of winter . . . I’d spent all week pretending that this was my life, that this was all there was, and every day I was reminded it was a lie. I was reminded that my list of lasts was growing.

“Have you talked with Chris at all?” Ethan asked.

I shook my head.

“Shame,” he replied.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he likes you. And you deserve to have someone nice like you.”

I tilted my head to look at him. He shifted on my belly so our eyes met.

“What?” he asked.

“How do you know?”

“We’ve been hanging out. You know, when you’re busy in the studio getting things ready. He’s really cool. I totally approve.”

“I told you I’m not dating,” I said.

“Why?” he replied. He’d never pushed the subject before. Suddenly, the quiet and closeness of the room became claustrophobic.

I went silent. He sat up.

“No, seriously Kaira. I know you dated in the past and it didn’t go well. I’ve been able to fill in the blanks. But why are you against him? He’s not your ex.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You never do. Listen, I’m not trying to start a fight or anything. It’s just . . . you’ve been so stressed out lately, and ever since Mandy’s death all I can do is think about time and how we don’t ever have enough of it in general and even less when it comes to being around the people we love, and how Islington just screws all of that up by making us focus on being artists rather than being teenagers with needs and desires and ambitions beyond being stellar creators.” He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his scraggly hair. “What I’m trying to say is, I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” I said. “I have you.”

“Lame,” he countered. “I was happy with you, too. Then I fell in love with Oliver and it’s like all my happinesses are amplified. Like, being in love with him makes it easier to love everyone else even more. And I want that for you. I really do.”

“I don’t need a boyfriend.” My voice was harsher than I wanted it to be. I don’t need to be vulnerable again—that’s how you get hurt.

“No. No, of course not. Neither do I. We’re all totally stable and steady adults and we don’t need anyone or anything beyond ourselves. But I can tell you like him. I’m not stupid—I know you better than you think. You totally steal glances at him when he’s not looking and he totally steals glances back. It’s like watching a damned tennis match. So why not just go for it? What do you have to lose when you know he won’t reject you?”

Nothing that wasn’t already taken by Brad.

“Ethan . . .”

“What did he do to you?” he whispered. It wasn’t an accusation; this was a question he’d clearly been dying to ask for months. There was more hurt in his words than I could bear.

And that did it. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes as Brad’s smile came back, the scent of his breath as he pressed me to the wall. . . . Ethan put a hand on my wrist, anchored me down.

“You can talk to me,” he whispered. “Please. I feel like you’ve created this persona and I don’t get to see anything that everyone else doesn’t already see. And I know there’s more to you than that. I know you’re hurting and I know you don’t want me to see it. But I do. And I want to be able to support you and help you through it.”

I wiped the tears and sat up, pushing myself back on the bed so I could prop myself up against the wall and pillows. He shifted and crossed his legs, looking at me head-on. His gaze didn’t break from mine.

This was not the conversation I wanted to have. This was not the ideal way to wind down the weekend before my show. But he was right. A week ago, someone was ripped from my life. In a few months, Ethan would be out of my life as well. Did I really want to have secrets from him? When I grabbed my diploma and parted ways with this place, did I want to look back and wonder if things would have been different if I’d opened up?

“His name was Brad,” I said. Even just saying the name was like aiming a gun at my forehead. “I met him my sophomore year . . . we were in pre-calc together. He was charming and a jock and he knew I didn’t really have any friends. So I guess he knew I was an easy target.”

This made Ethan’s eyebrows furrow.

“Things were great at first. I mean, I thought they were great. He took me on real dates where he’d pay for food and then take me to the movie theatre. Super respectful. I told him I wanted to take it slow and he said that was okay, he was fine not having any pressure. I wanted it to be like all the TV shows and movies, where the nerdy girl gets the guy and rules the school. Hopefully after some really cool makeover montage.” My laugh was bitter.

“We were together a few months and it was . . . I don’t know. It wasn’t perfect, I guess, but it was all I’d known up to that point and I figured that’s just how all first loves went. And yeah, I actually thought I loved him. Isn’t that stupid? I wanted someone to care for me so badly, I just let myself fall for him without thinking twice. He’d buy me things and leave me notes and it made me feel wanted, you know? Like finally, someone out there really cared and saw me for who I was and wanted to be with me in spite of it. But even though I loved him, I think a part of me was always convincing myself that it was love, like I needed a reminder that this was what everyone told me I wanted. But there were times when he’d look at me, or put his hand on my shoulder, and it just felt like I was a prize to him, and I couldn’t figure out why. I remember . . . he got me this necklace, right? Simple gold chain and a little heart charm. For our two month anniversary. And when he put it around my neck and kissed me it felt like he was putting on a collar. I couldn’t explain it, but I thought that’s just how dating was, you know? Our first kiss was terrible and I always felt a little awkward, but I was the awkward girl and he was the pretty boy and I figured it always worked out in the movies so maybe it would work out for me. He could have anyone in the school. He picked me. And that meant I was special and important and better than everyone else, which wasn’t something I’d ever felt before. We did everything together—homework and dinner and movies, and not once did he make a move, even though he kept hinting that he wanted to, saying I was beautiful or sexy or whatever. But I was scared. Even though I loved him, even though I thought it was what I wanted, a part of me didn’t want to trust him.”

The crows didn’t want me to trust him either. And they were right.

I took a deep breath. This was more than I’d told anyone, but I knew Ethan would want the full story. Not because he wanted me to be vulnerable, like Brad had, but because he wanted to share my burden. He squeezed my arm.

“Then came homecoming,” I continued, my voice dropping and becoming more clinical. Apparently, that was my way of coping with shock. “Mom helped me pick out a dress. I wore the necklace Brad got me. And he picked me up in his truck and took me to a fancy dinner and held my hand whenever he could. It felt . . . honestly, it really felt nice. Like I was finally playing my part properly, you know? Except I apparently wasn’t playing it good enough. We had our first dance, he started drinking. Before I knew it he had me against the wall in the bathroom with one hand on my neck and the other up my dress.”

I went silent. Inside, I was numb. I stared at Brad’s grin within my mind and felt absolutely nothing. I knew I should have had a reaction of some sort. I knew I should be more broken. I probably would have been, too, if things hadn’t turned out the way they had.

“Jesus Kaira,” he whispered. “I had no idea.”

I shrugged and looked at his wall, staring at the sketches he and I had done together.

“Not many do. The sickest part was, I didn’t even try to fight. I didn’t scream or push him away. He kept saying I’d made him do it, that I’d held out too long and I owed him this. That’s what I got for trusting someone who seemed to care about me.” I shook my head and tried to get the scent of his cologne and sweat out of my memory. It might not cause a reaction, but I sure as hell didn’t want him to linger on when he should have been dead to me. “When he was done, he kissed me on the forehead and said that I’d finally gotten what was coming to me. I called home and had my mom pick me up. I didn’t tell her anything. I never did.”

“Fuck,” he muttered.

I nodded.

There were holes in the story. Many holes. But I wasn’t about to tell him that Mom had warned me from the dance, had nearly forbid me to leave until my dad asked her to calm down and let me go. I didn’t tell him about the crows that dive-bombed the truck on our way to the school. And I didn’t tell him what happened to Brad. Not yet. Probably not ever.

There were many things Ethan could have said and done after that. He could have told me that Chris wasn’t like Brad, that I couldn’t let this stop me from loving forever. He could have told me that he understood. Any of those things would have pushed me out the door.

Instead, he leaned down and curled up against my shins.

“I am so, so sorry,” he whispered. And that was all.

After, right before sign-in, I left out the back door and stood on the fire escape, staring up at the sky. The snow had stopped and pockets of stars shone through the clouds. My breath came out in tiny wisps, the air so cold my nostrils froze the moment I inhaled.

I wanted to embrace the beauty of the moment. I wanted to feel good about finally releasing Brad’s demon from my subconscious. I knew, deep down, that telling Ethan was progress, that this was good. But I couldn’t ignore the omens: Crows lined the roof of the opposite dorm. All watching. All waiting. They were patient, but they weren’t letting me forget.

Brad had hurt me, true. What he did was unforgivable and I wasn’t the forgiving sort anyway. I knew without a shred of doubt that my hatred toward him—locked away though it was—was completely justified. But what I had done in return . . . I clenched the rusted rail of the fire escape and let the grit and ice dig into my flesh.

I would never escape the repercussions of my actions. I had run to boarding school, but it wasn’t to escape Brad or the traitorous friends who’d done nothing after the attack. It wasn’t to avoid the memories and malice lingering in every inch of that damned school and town. I’d run away to escape myself. Airing my past wouldn’t help. Sharing the burden wouldn’t ease the pain. I couldn’t escape who I was or what I’d done, no matter how fast or far I ran.

The crows were just a reminder of that. They wanted back in.

My past wasn’t done with me. Not yet.

•  •  •

Coffee House was Sunday night. Normally, I would have skipped to put the finishing touches on my thesis, but Ethan forced me to put away my paints and collage materials and, as he said, be back among the living. Coffee House was Islington’s version of an open mic, only the people here actually had talent so it wasn’t painful like the ones I’d gone to before. So at ten to seven I met Ethan in the lobby of his dorm and we headed to one of the larger cabins dotting the edge of campus.

Kids were already crammed inside, the cabin door open and spilling light and warmth out into the snow. The orange light was a shifting triangle on the sidewalk, windows showing dozens of heads all circled around a semi-stage in the corner. And here, we were five minutes early.

Ethan and I crowded in behind some junior dancers—an easy tell, seeing as they all had annoyingly perfect posture—and waited for the show. Elisa was at rehearsal and Oliver was studying, so it was just the two of us. The two of us, until I spotted Chris’s fedora over in the corner. He looked over the moment I spotted him. When he waved, I knew the duo was about to become a trio.

I hadn’t seen nor spoken to Chris outside of class since telling Ethan about Brad. My gut turned when Chris began pushing through the crowd toward us. Telling Ethan had made me feel a small amount better, but the past was still way too close to the surface for comfort. Walking down that memory lane had pretty much ensured my walls were back at full height.

“How’s it going?” Chris asked when he neared us. The dancers did not look too pleased when he brushed past them. Though they definitely did an appraising over-the-shoulder glance when he went by.

“Fine,” Ethan and I replied in unison.

“Whoa, that was creepy. How much time have you been spending together?”

“Too much,” Ethan said. “Thesis work.”

“I hear you,” he replied. But he didn’t get a chance to empathize further; at that moment, the lights dimmed and the crowd hushed and Jonathan took to the stage.

The first time Jonathan hosted Coffee House, I thought it was strange it hadn’t been done by a theatre faculty member. Then he started talking, and I realized that his minor in theatre (so he could retell stories more effectively) hadn’t gone to waste. Tonight, he’d changed from his usual tweed blazer into a sleek ensemble of black slacks and a royal blue button-down. The sleeves were rolled up, showing even more of his tattoos than usual. I wondered if one of his goals in undergrad was to become a hot professor—he’d certainly cultivated the look.

“Evening friends,” he said when the room went quiet. “Thanks for braving the weather for this month’s Coffee House. We’ve got a full lineup tonight that I think you’re going to love. As a quick reminder—no negative shout-outs, please. Keep it classy.” He winked. “Without further ado, we have Kevin and Lisa.”

A boy and girl went up, both of them freshmen I’d only seen at meal times. I think they were both in the theatre program, though the boy was playing guitar and the girl sang this beautiful cover of a pop song I knew I’d have stuck in my head for the next week now. Throughout it all, I was keenly aware of Chris bobbing side to side, his arm occasionally brushing mine. I knew it was just the heat and the closeness of the room, but it felt like my skin was on fire every time he touched me. Oddly enough, these brushes weren’t as unwelcome as I’d expected. It was easy to remember the gravity between us in the teahouse. Just as it was easy to remember the gravity Brad had exerted at the very beginning.

About halfway through, after a surprisingly funny bit of stand-up comedy from a sophomore dance major, Jonathan stepped back onto the stage and announced Chris’s name. I thought it must have been a mistake, or maybe a different Chris, but sure enough, the Chris standing beside me pushed his way through the crowd toward the podium.

“Hey everyone,” Chris said. He didn’t sound uncomfortable like I expected him to—like I would have if I were in his shoes. Instead, he smiled and held his shoulders back and stood up straight, owning every inch of the dim spotlight. “I’m going to sing a song I wrote. I’m afraid I don’t play guitar so it’s gotta be a capella. Hopefully, you can fill in the blanks.”

And he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, nodded his head to some inner rhythm, and began to sing.

I expected it to be awkward. The preliminary embarrassed for you chills crept across my arms. But the kid was good. Really good. He sang about snow and home and the girl he never knew. At first, I thought it was about me. Then, with a flush of misplaced vanity, I realized it was actually about Mandy.

When he was done, I wasn’t the only one with tears in my eyes. I glanced over to Ethan just in time to see him wipe his face with one mittened hand. He sniffed and caught my gaze, his eyebrows going wide in a holy shit that guy can sing expression.

Right? I mouthed through the applause. No time to get into it, though, as Chris was back the next moment with a sheepish grin on his face. The dancer girls in front of us all did the second-look appraisal this time. If he didn’t walk out of here with at least one offer of a date, I’d be surprised.

“What’d you think?” he asked as he sidled up beside me. And yeah, it was kind of nice seeing those curious looks on the dancers turn to disappointment when they saw him lean in to talk to me.

“It was beautiful,” I said. “I didn’t know you were into music.”

He shrugged. Onstage, Jonathan was announcing the next act. When Chris spoke again, he leaned in closer so his lips were inches from my ear.

“I was in a band back home,” he said. “I mean, before here. Kinda gave it up to come here.”

“You should get back into it,” I said. “That was amazing.”

He smiled and reached over, like he was about to hug me. Instead, he just squeezed my shoulder and turned to face the next act.

Our knuckles touched; electricity sparked through my veins.

My hand jerked away.

“You okay?” he asked, looking at me, confused. I suppose to him it felt like I was swatting his hand.

“Sorry,” I said. It wasn’t an answer.

Because the moment our hands touched, I saw Brad’s smile. And in the darkness of Brad’s eyes, I saw the raven, bleeding.