The next morning feels strangely ordinary — which, considering everything that happened, should've felt impossible.
The smell of coffee wafts through the house, and bacon sizzles on the stove, courtesy of my dad's well-meaning but always slightly burnt cooking. The kitchen hums with a kind of forced calm, like nobody wants to be the first to poke the bubble we're all floating in.
Alex sits across from me at the table, sleepily stabbing at a pancake. Every few seconds, he glances at his phone like he's expecting it to explode. I know the feeling. Even if Alex's dad's visit ended better than any of us could've predicted, there's still Jordan, still uncertainty.
Still a lot of what ifs.
I'm mid-bite into a bacon strip when my phone buzzes violently against the table, nearly making me choke.
Alex's head jerks up. "Is it...?"
I nod, already knowing what it is. I snatch up the phone.
University results.
Suddenly, the bacon tastes like cardboard, my palms sweaty against the screen as I open the email.
One word greets me in bold letters.
Congratulations.
It doesn't immediately sink in. My brain stutters, struggling to catch up with my eyes.
I blink down at the message, rereading it once, twice, three times.
Then I laugh — this ugly, disbelieving sound — and shove the phone toward my parents. "I got in," I croak out.
Mom gasps, covering her mouth with both hands. Dad gives one of those proud, tight-lipped smiles he thinks hides how emotional he really is.
"You did it," Dad says, clapping a hand on my shoulder so hard I almost topple over.
Alex beams at me from across the table, his grin so wide it physically hurts to look at. His happiness feels like sunlight, warm and blinding.
I fumble for my phone again and shoot a quick text to Camila.
Me: I GOT IN.
Her response is immediate, pure chaos:
Camila: BRO BRO BRO I'M CRYING??? 😭😭😭Camila: THIS IS EVERYTHING!!!Camila: still waiting on mine but THIS IS UR ERA
I grin and fire back a string of random emojis because honestly, words aren't enough right now.
For a little while, it feels like maybe the world isn't ending. Like maybe, just maybe, things are okay.
The afternoon sun slants lazily across the living room when the doorbell rings.
I freeze, instinctively glancing at Alex. His body goes rigid too.
After yesterday's surprise visit from his dad, neither of us trusts unexpected guests.
Slowly, cautiously, I get up and open the door.
It's Alex's dad again.
But this time, he's not alone.
Standing beside him is a woman — older, with warm eyes and tired lines etched into her face — and a small boy clinging to her hand. The kid can't be older than eight, and he's wearing a baseball cap that's seen better days.
Alex's dad clears his throat, awkward. "This is Maria. And Diego." He shifts uncomfortably, almost sheepish.
Behind me, Alex stiffens in the hallway.
I glance at him over my shoulder, searching his face for any sign of how he wants to play this. There's a moment — just a heartbeat — where he looks ready to bolt.
But then his jaw tightens. He squares his shoulders. And he steps forward.
"Come in," he says, voice neutral but not hostile.
Maria gives him a cautious smile as they step inside. Diego stares at Alex with wide, curious eyes, clutching a piece of paper in his small hands.
Everyone settles awkwardly in the living room. The tension is thick enough to slice.
I watch from the edge of the couch as Diego shyly approaches Alex and thrusts the crumpled paper toward him.
Alex blinks down at it — a messy drawing of stick figures under a wobbly sun.
"I drew you," Diego says proudly. "You're the one with the cool hair."
Alex's breath catches, just for a second. His fingers tremble slightly as he takes the drawing.
"Thanks, little man," he says, voice rough.
Maria smiles softly. "Diego's been asking about you since he found out."
The conversation limps along after that, stilted but earnest. Maria does most of the talking, bridging the heavy silences Alex and his dad leave behind. Diego chatters on about soccer and superheroes, blissfully oblivious to the emotional minefield he's running circles around.
And somehow — against all odds — the atmosphere softens.
It's not perfect. God, it's not even close. But it's... something.
Healing, maybe. Or at least the start of it.
Later, after they leave, Alex slumps onto the couch beside me, exhausted.
I slide an arm around his shoulders. He doesn't pull away.
"I didn't think he'd actually show up," Alex says after a long pause. "Let alone bring them."
I press my cheek against his hair. "Neither did I."
A beat of silence passes. Then he adds, so quietly I almost miss it, "I don't know what to do with it. All this."
"You don't have to do anything right now," I say. "There's no deadline. No manual."
Alex lets out a shaky breath. "It's just... weird. I spent so long thinking he didn't give a damn. And now..."
"And now he's trying," I finish for him.
"Yeah."
We sit like that for a long while, the fading sunlight casting gold across the walls.
No rush. No pressure. Just two people, figuring it out one breath at a time.
Eventually, Alex tilts his head back to look at me. His eyes are a little glassy, but there's a small, tentative smile tugging at his lips.
"One step at a time," he says.
I nod, brushing my thumb against his knuckles.
"Always."
And for the first time in a long time, it feels like maybe — just maybe — the future isn't something to be afraid of anymore.