"Come in."
Nathan opened the door.
Mrs. Morales's office was exactly as he remembered it: small, bright, with that ficus plant in the corner that always seemed on the verge of dying but never did. Motivational posters on the walls—"The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step", "You are not alone"—and a tidy desk with a box of tissues strategically positioned near the visitor's chair.
How many students have cried in that chair, Nathan thought.
Not you, The Noise replied. You never did. And most importantly, you won't start today.
Mrs. Morales stood up to greet him. She was a woman in her fifties, gray hair pulled back in a soft bun, red-framed glasses that gave her a younger look. She was smiling—she always smiled—but there was something in her eyes that Nathan had learned to recognize over the course of two years: attention. The woman observed everything.
Watch out, said The Noise. She's sharper than she looks.
"Nathan." Mrs. Morales gestured to the chair in front of the desk. "Thank you for coming. I know school's technically over, so I appreciate the effort."
"No problem." Nathan sat down, setting his backpack on the floor. "I had the morning free." His hand lingered on the backpack strap a second too long, as if letting it go was too risky.
Right tone. Relaxed but not indifferent. Keep it up.
Mrs. Morales sat back down, folding her hands on the desk. For a moment she said nothing—just looked at him, with that calm expression Nathan had learned to fear more than direct questions.
"So," she said finally. "The last check-in. Or should I say check-out." She smiled at her own joke. "How do you feel?"
Second time today, The Noise observed. Same question, same answer.
"Good." Nathan returned the smile. "A bit strange being here without other students, but... good." The answer came out too smooth, too quick.
"Good." Mrs. Morales nodded slowly. "You know, Nathan, in two years of meetings you've told me you were 'good' about... one hundred and five times? One hundred and six?"
She's probing. Don't take the bait.
Nathan shrugged, maintaining the smile. His neck, however, remained stiff. "Maybe because it's true?"
"Maybe." Mrs. Morales leaned back in her chair. "Or maybe 'good' has become the automatic answer. The one that requires the least energy."
Silence.
Don't answer right away, said The Noise. If you answer right away you'll seem defensive. Count to three.
One. Two. Three. He held his breath at "Two" and released it only at "Three," slowly.
"I guess that's possible," said Nathan, calibrating his tone—thoughtful, open, as if he were actually considering the idea. "But I don't think that's my case. I really feel... at peace, now."
Excellent, said The Noise. You're doing great.
Mrs. Morales studied him. Nathan held her gaze without apparent effort—he'd had two years to perfect this part.
"Let's talk about MIT," she said, changing approach. "In a few months you'll be on the other side of the country. New city, new people, new challenges. How do you feel about it?"
Careful. Minefield.
I know.
"Excited... I think." He said "excited" and then immediately corrected with "I think," as if the first was too true. "A bit nervous, obviously—that's normal, right?" Nathan tilted his head. "But mostly excited. It's an incredible opportunity."
"It is." Mrs. Morales nodded. "And your father would have been very proud."
He felt like a shard of glass turning between his ribs. His fingers gripped the edge of the chair until he felt the wood pressing against his skin.
Breathe, said The Noise. It's just a phrase. You've heard it a thousand times.
"Yes." Nathan's voice didn't waver. "He would have been."
"Do you ever talk about it, you and your mother? About what it would have been like if Daniel were here?"
No, Nathan thought. We never talk about it. We talk about the weather, about work, about MIT. We talk about everything except him.
"Sometimes," he said instead. "When it comes naturally."
Lie, The Noise registered. But a necessary lie.
Mrs. Morales picked up a folder from the desk—Nathan's folder, probably. She opened it, scanned through a few pages.
"You know what I see here, Nathan?"
A kid who did everything he had to do not to raise suspicions. Not to make others worry.
"What?"
"I see a student who maintained an excellent GPA despite losing his father at the beginning of junior year. I see someone who never missed a class, who never showed signs of breaking down." She looked up from the folder. "The only disciplinary note in four years is that suspension sophomore year. For defending a classmate from a bully... But the school has a zero-tolerance policy in these cases..."
Steve, Nathan thought. Mark crying against the lockers. The punch I didn't throw but wanted to.
"Not exactly the profile of a troubled student," Mrs. Morales continued. A hint of a smile. "If all my cases were suspensions for doing the right thing, my job would be much easier."
She's trying to put you at ease, The Noise warned. Don't let your guard down.
"I see someone who held everything together in a... remarkable way."
She's getting to the point, said The Noise. Get ready.
"Thanks, I guess?"
"It's not necessarily a compliment, Nathan."
Silence. The kind of silence that precedes something.
Mrs. Morales closed the folder, set it on the desk. She took off her glasses, cleaned them with a corner of her shirt—a gesture Nathan had seen her make hundreds of times, usually before saying something important.
"Can I be honest with you?"
No, Nathan thought. There's no point.
"Sure," said Nathan.
Mrs. Morales put her glasses back on. "In two years, you've never told me one true thing. You've never told me what you really think..."
The world stopped for an instant. He opened his mouth to respond. No sound came out.
Stay calm, said The Noise, but there was something different in its voice. Urgency. Stay calm. She doesn't know anything. She's just—
"You've told me what you thought I wanted to hear," Mrs. Morales continued, her voice gentle but firm. "You've answered my questions with the right answers. You've smiled when you were supposed to smile, you've shown the right amount of emotion when needed." A pause. "You're very good at it, Nathan. Probably the best I've ever seen."
Nathan felt his heart race. "I don't understand what—"
"You know what you've never done? In two years?" Mrs. Morales leaned forward slightly. "You've never cried. You've never gotten angry. You've never said 'today's a shit day' or 'I miss my father so much I can't breathe.' You've never..." she searched for the word, "...broken down. Not even a little."
It's a trick, said The Noise. She wants you to crack. Don't do it. Don't—
"Maybe because I'm fine..." said Nathan. He heard his own voice asking for permission, instead of affirming.
"Maybe." Mrs. Morales held his gaze. "Or maybe you've built a wall so perfect that even you can't see what's behind it anymore."
The silence that followed was different from all the previous ones. Denser. More dangerous.
Nathan could hear The Noise talking to him—answer, smile, deflect—but the words seemed to come from far away, as if through water.
"Nathan." Mrs. Morales's voice had grown softer. "I'm not here to judge you. I'm not here to 'fix' you. I'm here because..." She stopped, searching for the right words. "Because keeping everything inside doesn't work. Not long-term. And I'm afraid that when you finally break down—because you will, everyone does—there won't be anyone there to catch you."
Don't listen to her, said The Noise. She doesn't know anything. She doesn't understand. You function. You've always functioned. That's what matters.
"I function," Nathan said out loud. It wasn't an answer: it was a reflex.
Mrs. Morales blinked. "What?"
Shit. You said it out loud.
"I..." Nathan swallowed. "I mean, I'm functioning. Grades, MIT, everything. I'm fine."
Mrs. Morales looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Okay, Nathan. If you say you're fine, I believe you."
That's not true. She's lying. She doesn't believe you. She never believed you., said The Noise. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that she lets you go.
But Mrs. Morales wasn't finished. She stood up, walked around the desk, and sat in the chair next to Nathan—not across from him, next to him. Close.
Nathan shifted half a centimeter, just enough not to seem like a movement.
"Can I tell you one last thing? Then I'll let you go, I promise."
Nathan nodded, not trusting his own voice.
"I'm proud of you."
The blow came without warning. Proud. The same word as his mother. The same word as his father, that evening on the couch, after Nathan had defended Mark from the bully. I'm proud of you, son.
Breathe, said The Noise, but the voice was distant, so distant.
"I'm proud," Mrs. Morales continued, "of how you held on. Of what you achieved. Of the strength you showed."
Stop, Nathan thought. Please stop.
"But Nathan..." Mrs. Morales leaned in, and for a terrifying instant Nathan thought she was going to take his hand. "Strength doesn't mean carrying everything alone. It doesn't mean never asking for help. It doesn't mean..." Her voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. "You're not alone. Okay? Whatever you're carrying, you don't have to carry it alone."
The wall trembled.
Nathan felt it—a deep vibration, like a distant earthquake. Something behind his eyes that pressed, pressed, searching for a way out.
No, said The Noise. No. Not here. Not now. Hold on. You don't have to cry.
"Thank you, Mrs. Morales." Nathan's voice was steady. His hands weren't shaking. The smile was in place. "I really appreciate it."
But something had changed. He felt it. A crack, thin as a hair, in the perfect wall.
Mrs. Morales studied him for a long moment. Then she sighed—a sigh that contained something like surrender—and stood up. She returned to behind the desk, opened a drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper.
"Here." She handed it to him.
Nathan took it. It was a printed sheet with a list of numbers and names. At the top, in bold: Support Resources—Mental Health.
There were phone numbers, website addresses, contacts for local therapists.
And more below. Local numbers, listening centers, counseling services.
"I'm not saying you need them," said Mrs. Morales, before Nathan could speak. "But I want you to have them. Put them in your wallet and forget about them. Maybe you'll never use them." A pause. "But if one night, at three in the morning, you feel... alone. Too alone. I want you to know there's someone on the other end of the phone. Always. Twenty-four hours a day."
Throw it away, said The Noise. As soon as you leave, throw it away.
Nathan folded the paper in half, then in half again. He folded it with almost maniacal care, as if the order could make it harmless. He slipped it into his back pocket.
"Thanks."
Mrs. Morales nodded. "You also have my email. If you need to talk, whenever you want—even from MIT, even in ten years—write to me. I'll be there."
"I will."
You won't, said The Noise.
Nathan stood up, grabbed his backpack. The door seemed very far away.
"Nathan?"
He turned.
Mrs. Morales was standing next to the desk, arms crossed, glasses reflecting the light from the window.
"Good luck with everything."
"Thanks." Nathan opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, closed it behind him.
His footsteps echoed in the silence.
You made it, said The Noise. It's over.
Nathan didn't respond. He walked, one foot after another, down the deserted hallway. He passed the lockers, the empty classrooms, the sun-faded posters.
Nathan.
Silence.
Nathan, answer me.
Nathan's hand went to his back pocket. He felt the folded paper, the corners pressing against the fabric.
Throw it away, said The Noise. You don't need it. You're fine. You said so yourself.
The back door. The one that led to the football field, to the gym bleachers. Nathan pushed it, stepped out into the warm June air.
The low wall behind the gym was where he always went when he needed to disappear. No one ever passed by there—no windows looked out on that spot, no path crossed through it.
He sat with his back against the warm bricks. He pulled out his earbuds. He put them in his ears.
But he didn't play music. He just sat there, in silence, staring at the sky.
Nathan, said The Noise, quieter this time. The paper. Throw it away.
Nathan slipped his hand into his pocket. He pulled out the folded paper. He looked at it.
Psychological Support. Twenty-four hours a day.
You don't need it, The Noise repeated. You're fine. You're—
Nathan put the paper back in his pocket.
Silence. The Noise said nothing.
Whatever you're carrying, Mrs. Morales had said, you don't have to carry it alone.
But that was exactly what he did. For two years. Every day. Every hour. Every breath.
It's the only way, The Noise finally said. Quieter, this time. Almost gentle. You know it.
Nathan knew it.
That was the problem.
I know., Nathan thought. And that's okay.