Chapter 4: Glass shards crack beneath

Side S

It is a crisp autumn morning, the air carrying a cool dampness. Safi sits on a bench by the Overlook, a thin, square piece of paper held loosely in her fingers.

This is one of her yearly spots. She folded the paper in half twice, unfolded it, and wrote a haiku with a marker.

She folds the paper into an intricate origami paper flower with practiced ease, writing UNFOLD ME across one of its petals before setting it down on the empty spot beside her on the bench. Leaning back, she idly spins the marker between her fingers.

A faint rustling of fabric catches her attention.

Safi snaps her head around and spots Max standing a short distance away, camera in one hand, a shoulder bag slung across her body. Max hesitates, then takes a step closer.

“Didn’t expect to run into you here.” Max says, her voice cautious. She lifts the camera slightly, as if in explanation. “I’m taking cover photos for the school’s promotional materials. Thought this spot would be perfect for a panoramic shot.”

Safi responds with a quiet hum, then caps the marker and tucks it away. She pulls out a cigarette and lighter from her pocket, sparking the flame with a practiced flick. As she takes a slow drag, a thin stream of smoke curls into the air.

She knows Max doesn’t mind, so she doesn’t bother asking.

She does need a little nicotine to help get her brain going, anyway.

From here, the red-brick Fine Arts Building, the lake, and the entire Caledon University campus spread out below them. It’s the perfect spot for photos.

Max moves around the Overlook, snapping pictures of the campus, adjusting her lens, searching for the ideal angle. Sometimes, she crouches low; other times, she steps onto an empty bench. The occasional click of the shutter echoes in the air. Safi, meanwhile, remains seated on a nearby bench, a cigarette in hand, her face partially obscured by drifting smoke.

“Max, question.” Safi shifts slightly, resting her hand on her knee, her gaze on Max’s back. “Why do you think people kill themselves?”

Max doesn’t turn around. “I think… illness,” she says simply, without asking anything more.

Safi lets out a dry chuckle. That was the official explanation. Officially, Maya took her own life because of mental illness.

But Safi never believed it. Illnesses don’t appear out of nowhere. If Maya had been struggling, there had to be a reason behind it, something that pushed her over the edge.

She has spent four years searching for the reason. And she still has nothing.

“Maya and I, we used to be here all the time.” Safi says, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that twists and fades into the air. “We’d sit up here and look out over the whole campus.”

She pauses, then lets out a sharp breath. “And then... she was gone. Suicide.”

“She said the world was too messed up for her. But even now, I still don’t know what finally broke her.”

“She was so fucking smart. And the best writer I’ve ever known. She was the one who encouraged me to sneak into old buildings. She loved life, I thought. Or at least, I thought she did.”

“And then, one day, she was just gone. Just like that. I still don’t understand why.”

“Every year, I come here and leave an origami. An intricate Japanese paper flower.” She picks up the folded paper flower from the bench beside her and holds it out to Max.

Max tucks her camera back into her bag, steps closer, and takes the paper flower before settling onto the bench next to Safi. “Unfold me... May I?”

“Go ahead. It’s just a haiku by Kenkichi Kusumoto.” Safi says, flicking the ash from her cigarette. She doesn’t look at Max, her voice detached, as if it makes no difference whether Max, absorbed in unfolding and reading the words, even hears her. “Every year, I hoped someone would pick one up and read it. But no one ever did. In the end, I just burned them myself. A little ritual, I guess.”

Max returns the unfolded paper, offering Safi an apologetic smile, a silent acknowledgment that she can’t restore its shape.

Safi takes it, and with a decisive motion, touches the dying ember of her cigarette to the corner of the square paper.

The edges curl, glowing embers consuming them, until the paper crumbles into the breeze.

A few days later, Safi submits bookdraft_Final_FINALFINAL to Gwen. She sits across from her professor, watching expectantly as Gwen flips through the manuscript.

But this time, Gwen’s reaction is different. She hesitates too long, her fingers skimming the pages as if searching for the right words.

“I think…” Gwen finally looks up, offering a strained smile that doesn’t match her usual confidence. “…some parts might need reworking. They’re… a little too sensitive.”

Safi freezes. Too sensitive?

This is supposed to be the final draft. The FINALFINAL draft. Every meeting before this, Gwen praised the manuscript, even offered to introduce her to her agent and publisher. But now, suddenly, she looks… unsure. Maybe even nervous.

“Is something wrong?” Safi asks.

“It’s not that.” Gwen shifts uncomfortably. “It’s just… some of the themes. They might need a little more… consideration.”

Safi leaves Gwen’s office, her head buzzing. This doesn’t make sense.

Up until now, Gwen was the one who encouraged her to dig deep, to pour her emotions onto the page. She was the one who championed her work. But now? Now, it feels like she’s pulling away.

Like she’s backtracking.

Safi is still processing it when she runs into Lucas in the hallway.

The ever-pretentious Lucas, who typically maintains a polite facade, now wears an expression tight with barely concealed anger.

“Listen,” he says coldly. “Whatever you think you know, you’ll never be able to prove it.”

What the fuck with that? I can’t PROVE anything?

Before Safi can respond, Lucas turns sharply and disappears into Gwen’s office, slamming the door behind him.

Safi hesitates for a second, then decides not to leave. Instead, she finds a quiet corner and shifts into an undergraduate literature student from the creative non-fiction class, pretending she needs to discuss an assignment with Gwen.

Lucas barging into the office just now. It’s a clue. A clue to why Gwen suddenly changed her stance on the manuscript.

Lucas, what exactly do you want me to prove?

She creeps back to Gwen’s door and leans in to eavesdrop.

“I’ve already told the publisher to put her book on hold.” Gwen’s voice filters through the door.

Lucas sounds impatient. “‘On hold’ wasn’t the request. It was supposed to be shut down.”

“I know.” Gwen pauses, as if considering her words, “But all I can tell them is that it needs revisions. That’s the only excuse I can give right now. I’m not going to let my most talented student’s work be erased just because of your problem.”

Lucas lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You think she needs your protection? Do you even realize who made the call to shut it down?”

Gwen’s voice turns cold. “I’m not trying to fight anyone. I’m just trying to keep the same thing from happening again.”

The rest of the conversation becomes muffled, but Safi has already heard enough. Her mind goes blank.

No. Blank isn’t the right word. White noise.

Her fists clenches so tight, her nails bite into her palms, leaving little half-moon marks. Only two thoughts hammer in her head:

One, no matter what, this book is getting published. It isn’t just a book; it’s her promise to Maya.

Two, she needs to have a very, very friendly conversation with Lucas.

Side M

On the second floor of Hellerton House, Max sits in front of her laptop, scrolling through the original poems Safi posted on social media. She tries reading them aloud, but she can’t make sense of them—whether it’s the ones with structured rhythm or the ones that feel like a jumble of unfamiliar words.

(Is this who she is as a poet?)

Just then, Miso leaps lightly onto her lap, snapping her out of her thoughts. Max runs her fingers through Miso’s soft gray fur, scratching under their chin. The little creature narrows their eyes, letting out a quiet purr.

(She looks cute when she sneezes from cat hair allergies.)

Max stands, gently setting Miso onto the chair, then walks over to the photo wall near her bed. She adjusts a pin on one of the pictures: a candid shot of Safi, sitting on the Overlook bench, back to the camera, head slightly bowed.

(She still remembers that drunken confession.)

Max stands there in silence for a long time. That day at the Overlook, Safi mentioned Maya again, instantly pulling Max back to the first time she heard that name—the night Safi, drunk and unguarded, reveals her feelings to her. Safi’s knowing tone about Maya at the Overlook that day, assuming Max recalled the night, revealed she hadn’t forgotten her confession.

(And I rejected her.)

Her gaze drifts across the photo wall, moving from the top left to the bottom right. She reaches out, tracing her fingers over another picture, but her mind has already traveled further back—to the high school bathroom, the gunshot echoing, Chloe collapsing into a pool of blood.

(Is loving someone else… a betrayal of you?)

Max can’t tell if the question is meant for the blue-haired girl in the photo, or for herself. She picks up her guitar from where it rests against the wall and sits on the bed. Hesitantly, she plucks at the strings, the melody coming in fits and starts. This guitar has been with her since high school, yet after all these years, her skills haven’t improved much.

(Just like everything else in my life. Stagnant.)

Setting the guitar aside, she opens her journal. She scribbles a few scattered sentences, then absently fills the blank space with a small doodle. It’s an old habit; writing down the thoughts she only dares to keep to herself.

Chloe, I'm scared. Scared my world will spiral into chaos again. Scared that “change” will only bring more pain.

Connecting with others only leads to losing them again. And losing them hurts even more.

You could have had a life, a relationship. But because of MY decision, you never even got the chance to live past twenty.

And here I am, living the life you were denied. That makes me a traitor, doesn’t it?

But...

What if I could actually try? Try to enjoy life, even without you? Do I even have that right?

She stops, her eyes lingering on the questions she just wrote. She’s never seriously considered these questions before, yet now, here it is, on the page, staring back at her, as if they had always been waiting.

Max sits at the counter of the Snapping Turtle bar, tucked into a corner, nursing a strong, sharp drink she rarely orders. She watches in silence as the two girls on stage play.

The duo is playing a song, Blister in the Sun. One strums a guitar, the other keeps rhythm on the drums. The crowd’s cheers swell and fade, merging with the pulse of the music.

When the song ends, Max sees the guitarist lean in and press a quick kiss to the drummer’s lips.

A small jolt runs through Max. She lowers her gaze to her drink. The amber liquid ripples, shimmering like a reflection of something buried deep inside her.

Safi.

Max takes a slow sip, the burn of the alcohol lingering on her tongue. Hot, like a kiss.

Her eyes drift back to the couple on stage. They look about her age. Nothing extraordinary. Just two people living a life she’s always wanted but allows herself to have.

An ordinary life.

(Safi’s eyes are always shining.)

A quiet, self-deprecating laugh escapes Max.

That confession. She shut it down, cold. And yet, here she is, sitting in a bar, trying to find answers at the bottom of her glass.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time.

Maybe she should give herself a chance. A chance to accept, to feel, to truly live, instead of being a prisoner of the past.

Or… is it already too late? “Can I really do this?” Max whispers.

“Do what?” Amanda’s voice drifts over from behind the counter, tinged with concern and curiosity.

Max gives a small smile but doesn’t answer. She lifts her glass, swirling the liquid inside, before glancing back at the two girls on stage.

They look like a bard and a witch, lost in their own little world. So close, so in tune, like characters in a LARP where nothing else matters except the two of them.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Amanda leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a more serious tone. “You walk into a bar alone, order a drink you don’t usually get, stare at the stage like you’re in a trance, but you’re not even enjoying yourself. Something’s definitely wrong.”

“Talk about what? That I’m debating whether or not to accept someone’s confession?” Max stops Amanda before she can say anything. “Just a heads-up: I already turned them down once.”

Amanda raises an eyebrow. “Wait, so someone confessed to you, you rejected them, and now you’re thinking about changing your mind? Or did they confess again, and you just haven’t answered yet?”

Max traces the rim of her glass with her finger. “It’s more like… I’m wavering. I don’t know if I should give myself a chance to reconsider.”

“A chance to reconsider? You mean you actually do have feelings for them, but you still rejected them?”

“I… don’t dislike them. That’s why I turned them down.”

“…The hell?”

Max shakes her head, pushing her empty glass toward the bar before standing up. But her eyes stay locked on the two girls on stage.

“Anyway,” she murmurs, mostly to herself, “I think I’m ready to give it a try.”