Thresholds

CHAPTER-14

The campus was quiet in the early morning, softer than I had remembered in all the chaos of finals and late-night rehearsals. Dew clung to the grass, sparkling like tiny fragments of glass in the sunlight that was just beginning to spill over the quad. Birds chirped faintly, a soundtrack to a day that felt monumental in a way no exam or studio session had ever felt.

Today was my last day here. Graduation. A word that carried weight I hadn’t fully processed until this morning. It felt strange to think that after years of following rigid schedules, attending lectures, and navigating rehearsals, I was about to walk across a stage and leave this behind. 

I had imagined this day countless times as a child. 

Sitting in a cap and gown, smiling for photos, tossing my mortarboard into the sky and yet, now that it was here, it felt impossibly surreal.

I got ready slowly, deliberately. My uniform was neatly pressed, the outfit chosen weeks ago for the ceremonial photographs. I tugged the cap onto my head and adjusted the tassel again and again in the mirror, each time finding a small crease or stray hair that needed fixing. My reflection stared back at me, flushed with excitement, nerves, and an undercurrent of unease I couldn’t shake.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Notifications, social media posts, comments, shares of my breakout song, messages from classmates I hadn’t spoken to in months. The numbers climbed quietly, then suddenly, all at once. 

People I didn’t know, strangers who had listened online, now tagging me, sharing clips, calling me 

“amazing,” “mature,” “different.” 

The weight of attention settled on my shoulders like a new garment, beautiful but unfamiliar.

I slid my phone into my bag and headed out. The walk to campus was slower than usual, the crisp morning air filling my lungs. Students scurried about, some in graduation robes already, others clutching folders and programs, faces bright with anticipation. I felt simultaneously invisible and exposed, as if I were walking through a bubble that separated me from the world yet made every glance sharper.

The quad stretched wide ahead, dotted with families, photographers, and friends gathering in small groups. The familiar stone paths and green lawns looked different today, magnified by the realization that this was the last time I would walk them as a student. I paused near the fountain, the water sparkling in the morning sun, and let myself breathe.

Memories surfaced unbidden: afternoons spent writing lyrics on the benches near the library, nights in the studio balancing music and assignments, hurried walks between classes, small laughs shared with friends. 

And then… moments with him. 

Glimpses of Issei walking across campus, the faint warmth that followed when our paths crossed, the quiet but steady rhythm of his presence beside me.

I shook my head, trying to clear the rush of emotions. Focus. Graduation first. The rest could wait.

Inside the auditorium, the air buzzed with chatter, shuffling feet, and the faint scent of polished wood. Rows of chairs stretched across the floor, caps and gowns forming waves of black fabric. I found my seat and sank into it, heart still hammering. Around me, faces lit up with recognition, smiles exchanged with classmates who had shared this journey for years. I felt an odd mix of belonging and displacement, like I was part of something but also standing slightly apart.

Minutes passed, and soon, the ceremony began. Speeches were delivered, words of encouragement and reflection flowing over the room. I listened politely, but my mind wandered between the speaker’s cadence and the rhythm of my own heartbeat. Every word seemed to echo, intertwining with the notes of my song that had started making waves outside this campus. 

The attention I had been building quietly through music, through effort, through long nights was colliding with this formal moment, and I felt the strange tingle of pressure and pride at once.

When my name was called, I walked across the stage slowly, deliberately. The applause was muffled through the haze of nerves and adrenaline. The dean shook my hand, smiled, and handed me my diploma. I felt the leather of the folder against my fingertips, the weight of accomplishment pressing into my chest.

Down in the audience, I caught sight of familiar faces. Friends waving, cameras clicking. And then, fleetingly, across the periphery, someone familiar. A shadow I knew, calm and steady, waiting. My chest fluttered, and I caught myself inhaling sharply before focusing back on the stage.

The ceremony ended. Hats tossed. Smiles shared. Tears discreetly brushed away. I lingered longer than most, walking the paths that had been mine for years, letting the sunlight fall over me, imagining the future that stretched ahead like an uncharted melody.

And as I stepped onto the campus steps one last time, I realized how much had changed. Not just the life I was leaving behind, but the life I was stepping into: one of music, growing fame, and the quiet but undeniable pull of someone whose presence had altered the rhythm of my days.

The crowd thinned gradually, families drifting toward restaurants and parking lots, laughter trailing behind them like loose ribbons. I moved through it all slowly, diploma clutched to my chest, fingers brushing the edge of the folder as if to reassure myself it was real.

“Hey.”

I turned, already knowing.

Issei stood a few steps away, hands tucked into his coat pockets, expression calm but softened in a way that made my chest ache. He looked slightly out of place among the clusters of parents and flashing cameras, yet unmistakably steady like he always was.

“You waiting for someone?” I teasingly asked, smiling before I could stop myself.

“Of course,” he replied. “A very amazing girl.”

For a moment, we just looked at each other. The noise around us faded into a distant hum, replaced by the quiet awareness that this us, standing here was no longer as invisible as it had once been.

We walked together, side by side, not touching but close enough that I could feel his presence like a current. The campus seemed to exhale around us, as if it too understood this was a goodbye of sorts.

Near the fountain, someone stopped suddenly in front of us.

“Sorry- are you-” the girl hesitated, eyes widening as recognition set in. “Oh. You are.”

I nodded automatically, the practiced ease slipping into place. “Hi.”

Her face lit up. “I love your song. I’ve had it on repeat all week.”

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely touched.

She glanced between me and Issei, curiosity flickering, sharpened by speculation. “Can I get a photo?”

“Sure,” I replied.

We stood together still not touching, but close enough to suggest something. The camera clicked. Once. Twice.

“Congrats on graduating,” she added breathlessly before hurrying off, already typing furiously on her phone.

The moment lingered after she left.

“That’s… new,” I murmured.

Issei nodded. “It’s only going to get more intense.”

There was no judgment in his voice. Just fact.

We continued walking, but I could feel eyes on us now.

Lingering glances, whispered recognition. A few people smiled. Others stared openly. My phone buzzed in my bag, over and over again, until the vibration felt like a second heartbeat.

I didn’t check it.

Not yet.

We reached the edge of campus, where the stone paths gave way to city pavement. This was where we usually slowed, where conversations softened.

“I got a call this morning,” I said quietly.

He looked at me. “From?”

“The label.”

His expression didn’t change, but I saw the way his jaw tightened just slightly. “About today?”

“I think so.” I exhaled. “They said they wanted to ‘talk.’”

“That never sounds casual.”

“No,” I agreed softly.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The city moved around us. 

Cars passing, voices overlapping, life continuing at its relentless pace.

“I’m proud of you,” he said finally. “No matter what they say.”

I looked at him then, really looked at him, and felt something heavy and tender settle in my chest. “I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted. “All of it. The music. The attention. Us.”

He met my gaze, steady as ever. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once.”

My phone buzzed again. This time, I glanced down.

A message from my manager.

We need to see you. Today. As soon as you’re free.

I swallowed.

“I should go,” I said.

Issei nodded. “Yeah.”

We stood there, the unspoken stretching between us. Graduation gowns rustled behind us. Someone laughed too loudly. A camera flash went off somewhere in the distance.

“I’ll see you later?” I asked, hopeful despite myself.

A pause. Brief. Almost imperceptible.

“Of course,” he said. “Text me.”

I smiled, relief flickering through me, unaware of how fragile that promise already was.

I only felt the weight of the world tilting slowly and quietly toward something neither of us was ready to name.

END CHAPTER-14