The Bridge
By the time sixth year began, Eileen had only one friend.
Callista Fairbourne had become constant as breath—there in the corridors, beside her in lessons, across from her in the common room. She had made herself indispensable: patient, understanding, ever-present. The only one who never looked at Eileen with awe or wariness—only quiet familiarity.
Graham Parkinson still watched her. But Eileen had begun to look away.
Callista had played the long game beautifully.
The girls were gone. The whispers had settled like dust. Eileen, brilliant as ever, had become a ghost in the halls—admired, but unapproachable.
And every time Graham tried to reach across the silence, Callista was already there.
Once, Eileen had been the bridge between her and Graham. Now Callista was the one who stood between them—carefully, deliberately, always smiling.
“Graham asked about your potion today,” she would say lightly over tea. “Said it was elegant. But I don’t know. He always sounds a little… condescending, don’t you think?”
Eileen would hesitate.
“He’s charming, but not very disciplined. You could do better.”
“He thinks he’s protecting you. That’s what they always do, isn’t it? Fall in love with a tragedy.”
She never lied outright.
She nudged. Tilted the light. Cast shadows just so.
And Eileen—valuing the thoughts of her dear friend—began to question.
Graham noticed the chill, but not the cause. He didn’t understand why Eileen no longer held his gaze in conversation. Why she left before he could speak with her. Why her responses—once soft and uncertain—had turned cool and formal.
He blamed himself. Perhaps he had misread her. Perhaps he had waited too long. Perhaps she simply hadn’t realized how he felt.
Still, he tried.
Every kindness now went through Callista. He asked her what books Eileen might enjoy. What tone to strike. How best to approach her.
Callista always answered helpfully. Smiling.
Inside, her hands itched.
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Time passed.
Nothing changed. Not enough.
Graham kept waiting for the moment to be right. But it never was. As sixth year ended and seventh year began, Callista watched the clock run out.
Eileen was still lovely. Still aloof. Still in Graham’s eyes. But now they were seventeen. Soon, they would graduate. Courtship offers would be extended, expected.
And Graham, ever the gentleman, didn't disappoint.
He came to Callista first. Of course he did.
He asked her—face open, voice uncertain—how best to word a courtship proposal. Said he wanted to be respectful. Honest. That he’d waited long enough to make his feelings clear.
He was afraid, he admitted, that he’d lost her before he’d ever truly had her.
Callista smiled. Her nails dug into her palms. She said all the right things. Picked the spot. Refined the wording. Promised Eileen would come.
Callista didn’t tell Eileen a thing.
The meeting place was simple. A quiet alcove in the castle gardens. Private. Timed perfectly—after supper, when most students would be in their houses, and the air would smell faintly of lavender.
Graham waited.
Callista arrived.
“She isn’t coming,” she said softly, eyes downcast. “I tried, Graham. She said… she didn’t think it was appropriate.”
She waited for him to break.
He didn’t. He just sat down heavily on the stone bench, rubbing a hand across his face.
Callista produced a flask. “It’s only mulled cider,” she said. “You look like you need something warm.”
He took it.
Drank.
He shouldn’t have.
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She was gentle. Soft-voiced. Comforting.
He was tired. Heartsick. Clouded.
She leaned in. Whispered that she understood him. That she saw him. That she had always been there.
And he didn’t stop her.
Later, he would think it was frustration. Loneliness. Weakness.
That he hadn’t even wanted it. Not her. But perhaps he'd wanted something to fill the silence.
He hadn’t.
But he’d never know that.
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She woke alone.
The sheets still warm.
The pillow still indented.
But he was gone.
And her name had never left his lips.