Page 78 of Fighting Fate

I catch my reflection, my confidence surging in the sexy librarian costume—a short plaid skirt, black glasses, and my strawberry blonde hair in curls. Borrowing these glasses from Luke had been an adventure in itself. Payson had to practically evict him from our dorm after he dared to criticize my outfit. I remember the tension between them, Brooke and I speculating on when they'd inevitably kiss again. It's their life, their choices, even if they're reckless.

Stepping out of the car, we navigate through the crowd, a familiar wave of anxiety washes away as classmates beckon us to the kitchen island. That island—the scene of my second kiss with Miles. A memory tries to surface, but Payson's tug on my hand pulls me into the present. We grab red cups, filling them with beer.

As Payson mingles with other RAs, introducing me and Brooke, I'm struck by one guy, Beckett—Beck. NorthRidge University's pitcher, and a dead ringer for Zach Wheeler. Sports are in my blood, so I can't help but be a little impressed.

Lost in thought, I reach for another beer, the buzz welcome, despite my usual distaste for it. Leaning against the island, surveying the crowd, I hear a voice. "Sexy librarian, or a unique take on a Harry Potter character?"

It's Beck. His confidence reminds me of Miles, that athletic charisma. But this is my night. No Miles. Just fun. I catch Beck eyeing me as I bite my lip, a flutter of butterflies—different from those Miles elicits—stirring in me. "Which do you prefer?" I challenge.

"Definitely sexy librarian," he replies, stepping closer, his gaze leisurely taking me in.

I grin, playing along. "Correct, Beckett." My tone is flirtier than usual, but it's all in good fun.

Tonight is about letting go. College isn't just about campus life; it's about these moments too. And as the evening unfolds with laughter, dance, and harmless flirting, I'm reminded of a quote from my old tutor, "Milli, just as in dance, where every step tells a story, let your life's journey be choreographed to the rhythm of your deepest truths, creating a masterpiece of authenticity, free from the shadows of regret."

In that moment, the full weight of those words hit me. I stand there, in the heart of the party's vibrant energy, feeling a profound connection to the truth they convey. Around me, the room pulses with life, laughter, and a kaleidoscope of stories unfolding.

I watch Payson and Brooke as they mingle effortlessly, their laughter weaving through the music and chatter. A warmth spreads through me, a gratitude for them, for the moments we have already shared during our freshman year.

My eyes then find Beck. He is in his element, surrounded by a group hanging onto his every word about baseball. I smile. His passion is palpable, and it reminds me of how each person in this room is following their own path, dancing to the rhythm of their individual truths.

I take a deep breath, letting the energy of the room fill me. It is more than just a party; it is a celebration of us, of who we are becoming in this sprawling tapestry of college life. And as I stand there, I realize I am exactly where I am meant to be—embracing every moment, every experience, and living my truth without any shadow of regret.

"Miles!" Harper's voice rings out, a vibrant melody in the sterile hospital room. I catch her gaze, brimming with unbridled excitement. She sits on the edge of her waiting room chair, fidgeting with anticipation as Kins, her ever-present guardian angel in scrubs, checks her vitals. A smile—spontaneous and heartfelt—finds its way across my face. Her enthusiasm is infectious, a bright spark that momentarily stills my heartbeat.

Is she really this excited to see me, Miles Chasen?

Memories flood in, unbidden. Hospital corridors much like these, but lonelier, quieter. My own childhood marred by illness. I remember the silence, the echoing absence of laughter, the mantra my parents repeated: "Rest is best." Friends and stories were replaced by sterile walls and hushed tones.

Harper's world is different. She has Kins, a nurturing presence, and friends like me who bring not just books, but a piece of the outside world, a dose of normalcy. I watch her, admiration and a tinge of envy mingling in my chest.

As Kins wraps up, I move closer, my smile an open invitation. "Hey there, champ. What's the latest from Harper's world?"

Her response is a burst of energy. "Miles, guess what! I made a dragon in art time. The coolest dragon ever!"

I squat down, meeting her at eye level, my interest genuine. "That's amazing, Harper! Tell me about this dragon. Does it have a name?"

Her eyes, wide with excitement, meet mine. "Did you ever have a dragon?"

"Actually, yes," I reply, a smile playing on my lips. "But mine was simply named 'Dragon'."

She giggles, a sound of pure joy. "Mine's 'Flamaraux'. He's red with black and white spikes. Isn't that cool?"

Her laughter tapers off as she contemplates the name I've given my dragon. "Dragon? That's an unusual name," she comments, her nose wrinkling cutely in a manner that brings Milli to mind.

I tap her nose playfully. "Easy to remember, right?"

She nods, a sage in a small body. As Harper dives into tales of Flamaraux's adventures, I'm struck by the resilience and imagination of children. In their world, dragons and art can coexist with hospital rooms and vital checks. I'm here, not just as a visitor, but as a bridge to a world where dragons roam free, a reminder of life beyond these walls.

Kins flashes me a supportive smile as she finishes her tasks. "Dr. Reynolds will be with you shortly," she says, her tone warm and reassuring.

Harper, her small hand gently resting on my arm, gazes up at me, eyes brimming with tales untold, a smile playing on her lips.

A smile strains across my face, but it's a thin veil over the turmoil churning inside. Dr. Reynolds' pending words hang over me like a dark cloud, a haunting echo from my childhood. In those silent rooms, I used to clasp my hands tight, silently pleading, hoping against hope that Dr. Reynolds wouldn't utter the dreaded, "Well, Miles, the scans aren't quite what we were hoping for."

This time will be different. It's become my lifeline, the mantra fueling my week, pushing me through a rigid routine. Every day unfolds with mechanical precision: wake, gym, classes, study, football, eat, study, sleep. It's the discipline I should have embraced most of my time in college, but life, as always, has its twists.

Yet, the routine has been more than a schedule; it's been my anchor, steadying me amidst the chaos, especially after what happened with Milli in the locker room. Walking away from her wasn't what I wanted. She deserves more than a fleeting, heated moment.

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