The results drop on a Thursday.
It's almost laughable how dramatic it feels—me sitting on the edge of my bed, laptop balanced on a pillow, Camila on call screaming in anticipation while Alex lies beside me like he's emotionally bracing for impact.
I hit "Submit."The page loads.And there it is.
"Oh my god," Camila screeches. "Nick! You did it!"Alex lifts himself on his elbows, peeking at the screen. "Okay, but why are your grades actually good?"I smack his arm. "Because, unlike some people, I studied.""You literally watched 'Modern Family' while doing math homework.""That is studying. Emotional resilience counts."
But beneath the banter, there's a real warmth spreading in my chest.
Because I passed.
Not scraped-by passed. But did-pretty-damn-good passed.
It feels like something clicked. Like I'm finally stepping out of the fog, and the road ahead isn't just a blur anymore.
Later that night, the three of us hit up our usual diner. It's one of those greasy spots with sticky menus, miracle hangover cures, and fries that taste better than they should.
"So, what's the plan now, college boy?" Camila grins, sipping from her milkshake.
"Media studies, maybe," I say. "Journalism too. I've been looking into a couple programs. Pretty sure I want to do both."
Camila gives me that proud mom nod that's only a little bit annoying."Honestly, your captions deserve their own podcast."
Alex is quiet beside me. Not in a weird way—just tuned out. Thoughtful.
"You good?" I nudge him.
He shrugs. "Yeah. Just thinking."
Camila eyes him. "Okay, I'm gonna go order another milkshake and pretend I'm not nosy."
She slides off her seat and leaves us to it.
I look at Alex. "What's on your mind?"
He stares at his half-eaten burger like it might speak first."I never applied to uni," he says finally. "Not last year. Not this one."
I blink."I thought you were taking a gap year?"
"That's what I told everyone." He huffs. "What I didn't tell them was that the idea of applying made me want to throw up."
My heart sinks a little.
"I didn't think I was smart enough," he admits. "Or good enough. I barely got through senior year. My brain was a war zone. Family stuff, mental health, everything. I couldn't picture a future because I wasn't sure I'd make it through the present."
I take his hand under the table.
"And every time someone asked me what I was doing next, I just—froze. So I smiled and said 'gap year' like it was a choice. Like I was traveling the world or doing something poetic. But I was just… surviving."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugs again, eyes a little glassy now. "I didn't want you to look at me different. Like I was wasting time. Or lost."
"I have been lost," I whisper. "Like, multiple times. You never made me feel bad about it."
He lets out a breath. "You don't judge."
"Exactly. So why would I start now?"
He looks at me. Really looks. Like he's trying to believe I mean it.
"I might apply next year," he says. "Something arts-related. Design maybe. Illustration. I dunno. I want to do something that actually makes me feel… alive."
"I'll help," I say. "Whenever you're ready."
His fingers tighten around mine. "Thanks. For not thinking less of me."
"Alex," I say softly. "You're literally the person I think most of."
He rolls his eyes. "That sentence is a grammatical crime."
"I'm too emotionally intelligent for grammar right now."
He leans into my shoulder. I lean right back.
Later, in the quiet, when Camila's gone home and we're curled up together in my room, it hits me how different things feel now.
Not perfect. Not all figured out.
But honest. Real.
And maybe that's what growing up really looks like—not always racing ahead, but stopping long enough to say:
"Hey. This is where I am. Will you walk with me?"
And hearing someone say,
"Yeah. I've got you."