rise by Laurel Krown

Two days had passed since she and Harlan worked in the same study room at the campus library. Two days since she cleared a space for him at the long wooden table. Two days since he surprised her by asking for her number before they walked their separate ways.

He had said it casually, in that calm, grounded voice of his, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move.
“I like having you as a study buddy,” he had said. “Even if we are not studying the same thing. Can I get your number?”

And she had given it.
Easily.
Naturally.

But now it was Wednesday, and her phone had remained silent ever since.

She sat in the back of her Abnormal Psychology classroom, pen tapping lightly against her notebook, trying to focus on the lecture review. The professor’s voice drifted through the room, steady and predictable, but her mind was doing what her mind always did, wandering into corners it had no business exploring.

He said he liked studying with me.
He asked for my number.
He was the one who wanted to keep in touch.

She stared at the blank corner of her notebook.

So why hasn’t he texted?

Almost immediately she straightened, mentally kicking herself.

Laya, stop. He did not ask you out on a date. He asked for a study buddy. That is it. You are overthinking. God, cleanse my thoughts. Please get me back on track. This is not like me. This is not who I am.

She flipped a page, more aggressively than necessary.

And his eyes—okay, his eyes were beautiful up close, but why am I thinking about his eyes right now? Hazel brown. Warm. Focused. No. No, stop. Stop. What am I even saying to myself?

She closed her notebook for a moment, pressing her fingers to her temples.

The room around her hummed with the low noise of pens scratching paper, laptop keys clacking, the professor’s voice blending into academic monotony. Normally, she thrived on learning. Psychology lit her brain up. Human behavior fascinated her. This class was one of her favorites.

But today she felt off, scattered in ways that had nothing to do with ADHD and everything to do with a boy sitting in a study room asking for her number.

She tried to refocus.

Her next exam wasn’t until the week after Thanksgiving. She had plenty of time to review chapters and reorganize her notes. She also had a writing paper due Monday, but that felt manageable. If she went to Beth’s again this weekend, she could get even more study time. Cannon Beach always reset her spirit, and the Sleepy Monk Café was her sanctuary.

And she wasn’t about to waste her full-ride scholarship by letting a boy distract her.
Especially one who hadn’t even texted.

She reminded herself she had two years left. Two years to finish strong. Two years to build the foundation for the life she dreamed of.

God gave me this opportunity. I refuse to waste it.

She pulled her notebook back toward her, ready to tune in again, when the thoughts she had been avoiding all morning crept back in uninvited.

Home.
Last night.
The shouting match.

She swallowed hard.

She had gotten home earlier than usual, hoping for a calm night. Instead, she walked straight into a storm. Her parents stood in the kitchen, voices raised, her father’s words slurred from alcohol. Bills. Money. Accusations.
And then the one line that stuck like a thorn she couldn’t pull out.

“She’s not even my daughter.”

He said it every time he drank.
And every time, it cut the same way.
Even though she knew he didn’t mean it sober, the words still landed as if he did.

But the same man who denied her at home bragged about her at family gatherings, told anyone who would listen that his daughter got into university on a full scholarship. She hated the contradiction of it. Hated how one version of him stood so far apart from the other.

Her stomach tightened just thinking about it.

She would study until the library closed at ten.
She wasn’t going home early again.

Maybe she would stop by Smash Burgers on the way. Their grilled cheese smash burger with the special sauce always comforted her. And she needed comfort after last night.

She stared at her open notebook, and the thought slipped in softly, almost without meaning to:

I wonder if he’ll be at the library today.

She blinked.
Then mentally scolded herself.

No. Focus. Focus. Focus.

But her brain refused to listen.

She remembered the way he had looked at her during their study session, calm but curious, the kind of curiosity that felt intentional rather than impulsive. She remembered how he had listened to her talk about her major, how he didn’t mock her writing dreams, how he didn’t dismiss psychology as an “easy” major like some guys did.

He had respected her goals.
He understood discipline.
He had mentioned he was studying law and minoring in psychology because the two fields complemented each other when working with people.

It made sense.
He made sense.
And she hated that she liked that.

She let her forehead fall gently to her notebook with a quiet thud.

Lord, please rescue me from my own imagination. Please, before I turn this into something it doesn’t need to be.

Her professor’s voice cut through the fog.

“Let’s move into Chapter Six: Mood Disorders and Suicide.”

A quiet shift moved through the room. Heavy chapters always did that, softened the air, drew everyone inward, reminded them they were studying real people and real pain, not just definitions in a textbook.

Laya straightened, lifted her pen, and anchored herself to the present. One breath. One page. One deliberate choice to stay here instead of following her thoughts wherever they wanted to go.

Today, she was going to finish class, head straight to the study room, get her homework done, and stay on track.

And if she happened to run into Harlan…
Well.
She would cross that bridge when she came to it.

She exhaled, steadying herself.

Please do not let me be disappointed if he is not there.

But even as she wrote down the chapter title, she felt the truth she didn’t want to name settle quietly at the back of her mind.

She kind of hoped he would be.

By the time afternoon practice rolled around, the sky over the field had settled into a muted gray that always reminded Harlan of late fall. The air smelled like wet grass and cold wind, the kind of weather that usually sharpened his focus rather than softened it.

Today felt different.

His teammates jogged laps around him, voices bouncing across the field, cleats thudding against turf. Jack and Damian jogged close behind him, both strangely quiet. Practice had barely begun, and they were already exchanging glances behind his back.

Harlan felt it but did not acknowledge it. He kept his eyes straight ahead, pace controlled, breath steady.

He was good at hiding what he felt. Years of doing it made it second nature.

But Jack noticed anyway.
Jack always noticed.

When the warm-up ended, Jack drifted closer, nudging his arm lightly with the edge of a water bottle. “You good,” he asked, voice even, casual, but not careless.

“Yeah,” Harlan said. “Fine.”

It was the truth in the simplest sense. His body felt fine. His mind, though, was occupied in ways he did not want to examine.

Damian squinted at him, hands on his hips. “You seem… quiet.”

Harlan stared at him. “I am always quiet.”

“No,” Damian said. “This is quiet quiet. Double quiet. Something-is-on-your-mind quiet.”

Jack sighed at the dramatics but didn’t disagree.

Harlan took a drink of water. “Nothing is on my mind.”

Jack raised a brow. “That is a lie.”

Harlan did not react outwardly, but internally a small irritation flickered.

I hate how he can read me. I hate it when people notice shifts I did not give permission for.

But it wasn’t anger toward Jack. It was toward himself.
Because he knew exactly why he felt off today.

The study room.

Two hours sitting across from her.
Two hours that moved too fast.
Two hours that felt strangely easy, even though nothing about her made sense to him.

She was bright.
Warm.
Animated in a way he rarely encountered.

And he liked listening to her talk.
That was new.
That was unsettling.

He hadn’t texted her because he didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound forced. He didn’t want their next interaction to feel transactional or polite. And something in him, something quiet and instinctive, wanted the moment they shared to stay just between them for a little longer.

Not a secret.
Just his.
Something real did not need to be spoken aloud right away.

Damian snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Crestwell.”

Harlan blinked once, slow and deliberate. “Stop doing that.”

Jack stepped closer, crossing his arms. “You did not sleep last night.”

“I slept,” Harlan said.

It was technically true. He slept. Not well. Not deeply. His mind had replayed small things he didn’t want to overanalyze. The way her voice softened when she talked about her future. The way her concentration shifted between her notes and her thoughts. The way she had smiled at his comment about goals. The way she didn’t make things complicated.

How she made the silence feel natural.

Damian studied his face. “You look like you did not.”

Harlan ignored that. “Can we start the drills?”

Jack and Damian exchanged another glance.

They always communicated silently.
One look meant more than a paragraph.

Jack finally said, “Yeah. We can start.”

But as they practiced passing drills, Jack watched him closely.
He wasn’t slower.
He wasn’t unfocused.
He was precise.
Almost too precise.

Hyper-focused.

It was the exact kind of focus Harlan had whenever he was trying not to think about something.

Damian whispered to Jack while they were resetting cones. “He is acting weird.”

Jack nodded. “I know.”

“What do you think it is?” Damian asked.

Jack watched Harlan dribble past two defenders, expression unreadable but intensity dialed up to ten. “I have a theory.”

“Which is?”

Jack didn’t answer immediately. He only murmured, “Monday.”

Damian’s eyes widened. “You think he saw her again?”

Jack didn’t confirm or deny. “He is different. Something happened.”

Damian stared at Harlan, processing. “Should we ask him?”

“No,” Jack said. “We wait. If he wants us to know, he will tell us.”

“Fair.”

Across the field, Harlan slowed his steps and let the ball roll to a stop. His thoughts were beginning to spiral again.

Do I text her now? Do I say hi? Do I ask if she is studying again? That feels too eager. Too intrusive. Maybe she does not care if I text. Maybe she forgot the whole thing by now. Stop. Stop thinking like that. You do not get distracted. You do not overthink. You do not do this.

He inhaled through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, grounding himself in the rhythm of it.

Jack jogged over and tossed him the ball. “You alright?” he asked quietly.

Harlan caught it easily. “Yeah.”

“You seem… somewhere else.”

“I am here.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. “Okay.”

But he didn’t push. He never pushed.
That was why they worked so well as friends.

Damian shouted from across the field. “If you two are done bonding, can we finish practice?”

Jack rolled his eyes and jogged back.

Harlan stayed where he was for a moment, the ball resting against his foot. His mind drifted back to the study room again, uninvited but insistent.

Her voice.
Her focus.
Her honesty.
Her steady presence.

He wasn’t embarrassed to think about her.
He wasn’t avoiding the truth.
He simply wanted to keep the moment private.
Just for now.
Just until he understood what it meant.

He had not texted her because he wanted their next interaction to be intentional.
Not rushed.
Not random.
Real.

He wasn’t used to wanting anything from anyone.
He wasn’t used to curiosity lasting longer than a moment.
This felt different.

He didn’t know what to do with that.
But he knew he didn’t want to ruin it.

He gave the ball a sharp, controlled kick. It curved perfectly toward the net.

Jack and Damian both glanced at him again.

Something had shifted in him.
They didn’t know what.
He didn’t want to explain it yet.

Some things needed silence before they could be spoken.

Practice ended later than usual, the sun dipping low behind the trees and casting long shadows across the field. Harlan grabbed his duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder, and felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

He rarely checked messages immediately, but something in his chest tightened.
A strange instinct.
A quiet warning.

He unlocked his phone.

A text from his dad.

Come home tonight. Family dinner. We need to talk.

Harlan stared at the screen for a moment, jaw tightening.

His dad never dropped messages like that midweek.
He barely expected Harlan home on weekends unless they were hunting or fishing.
Wednesday was completely out of pattern.

A cold heaviness settled low in his stomach.

Something’s wrong.

Jack passed by, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “You heading to the library?”

Harlan’s hand closed around his phone. “Not tonight.”

Damian glanced over, confused. “You sure? Thought you were planning on catching up on that paper?”

Harlan nodded without explanation. “Yeah. Something came up.”

Jack watched him longer than necessary, eyes narrowing slightly as if he could sense the shift but knew better than to pry. “Let us know if you need anything.”

Harlan nodded again, grateful and dismissive at once. “I will.”

He didn’t add what he was actually thinking.

I wanted to go. I wanted to see if she would be there. I wanted… I do not know what I wanted. But this ruins it.

He pushed the thought down, locked it away behind the discipline that had always held him steady.
He headed to his truck and drove home.

The moment he stepped into his house, he felt the tension. It buzzed in the walls like trapped electricity. His parents’ bedroom door was shut, voices murmuring on the other side. Not loud. Not fighting. Just… controlled. The kind of controlled that scared him more.

Scar’s bedroom door was cracked open.

A soft sniffle reached him.

His heart slammed.

He moved quickly.

“Scar,” he said, knocking once before stepping inside.

His sister was curled under her blankets, eyes red, hair matted from her pillow. The moment she saw him, her face crumbled and she tried to wipe her tears, but more spilled out anyway.

Harlan sat down immediately on the edge of her bed. “Hey. Hey, what happened?”

She took a shaky breath, then another, then forced out, “I heard them. Through the wall. They think they’re being quiet but they’re not.”

His chest tightened. “What did you hear?”

She swallowed hard, voice cracking. “They were talking about divorce.”

The word hit him with a strange, unexpected duality.

Relief.
And devastation.

Two halves of a feeling he didn’t know how to hold at the same time.

He’d waited years for this.
For them to just end it.
For the tension to break.
For the constant arguing and silences and cold walls to have an end date.

But Scar…
Scar was only thirteen.
She didn’t understand the adult exhaustion of living in a home built on broken beams.

She only felt the loss.

Scar sat up fast and threw her arms around him, burying her face into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, the instinct so deep it felt like breathing.

“I don’t want them to split up,” she sobbed. “I don’t want everything to change.”

“It is okay,” Harlan said quietly, rubbing her back. “It is going to be okay. I promise.”

“It won’t,” she cried. “Everything is going to be different.”

He swallowed, fighting the sting in his own eyes.

You cannot break. Not here. Not in front of her. She needs you to be steady. She needs you to be the wall no one else is.

He pulled her in closer. “Listen to me. Whatever happens, everything will work out. You are not going to be alone. I am here. Always. And this… this might actually be best for the family.”

She cried harder at that, which confused him and hurt him all at once.

Why am I relieved when she’s breaking? Why does this feel like freedom to me and destruction to her?

He didn’t understand it.
He only knew he had to hold her together until dinner.

When their mom called them to the table, the two of them went together.
Scar’s hand brushed his as they walked, small and trembling.
He kept her close.

The dinner table felt colder than usual.
No music.
No light chatter.
No fake attempts at normal.

Just plates.
Just silence.

His father cleared his throat after a few bites, the sound heavy and deliberate.

“Thank you for being here,” he said, looking at Harlan.

Harlan nodded once.

His father continued, “Your mother and I have made a decision.”

Scar stiffened beside him.
Harlan felt her hand clench.

“We are getting a divorce,” his father said.

The words sat between them like a stone dropped into still water.
The ripples hit Scar first.
Her breath hitched.

Harlan’s mother looked down at her food.

His father continued, “No one is moving out yet. Nothing changes until you finish college, Harlan. After that, we will separate homes.”

Harlan’s jaw clenched. “What about Scar?”

His father frowned. “I was getting to that. Do not interrupt.”

Harlan said nothing, but Scar curled closer to him, her shoulder brushing his.

His father went on, “When Harlan graduates, Scar will be starting high school. Your mother will get her own place. Scar can choose where she wants to live. With me or with her mother.”

Scar swallowed back a sob.
Harlan felt the movement.

A slow burn of anger ignited in his chest.

Not the explosive kind.
Not the kind that shouted.
The cold kind.
The steady kind.

The kind that meant he was thinking.

You are thinking about logistics. Not emotions. You are thinking about your comfort. Not hers. You are planning your timelines. Your convenience. Not her stability. Not her heart.

He kept his face still, his breathing even.

Scar could not fall apart alone.
Not in front of them.

His father continued talking about schedules, finances, responsibilities, but Harlan barely heard any of it. He watched Scar’s expression instead. The sadness in her eyes. The fear.

And something else.
Something deeper.
Abandonment.

Harlan’s throat tightened.

Do not cry. Do not let it show. You are the oldest. You are the son. You do not fall apart. You protect. You stand. You stay calm.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and set his hand quietly on Scar’s knee under the table.

She leaned into him, tears falling silently.

He didn’t look at her.
But he didn’t move his hand either.

When dinner finally ended, Harlan walked Scar to her room before heading to his own.

And once the door shut behind him, once the house settled into its late-night stillness, the emotion he’d been crushing under his heel pressed harder.

I should have gone to the library. I should have studied. I should have run into her.

He hesitated, sitting on the edge of his bed, hands clasped together.

Would seeing her have changed anything? Would it have steadied me? Would it have given me the reminder that peace exists in small places?

He didn’t know.

He only knew that tonight, he needed quiet.

Silence.
Control.
Stillness.

The only things he could count on.

But something deep inside him whispered the truth he didn’t want to face.

I wish I had texted her.

Harlan sat on the edge of his bed long after the house had gone quiet. His hands were still loosely clasped, elbows resting on his knees, the dim light from his desk lamp painting soft shadows across the room.
Scar was finally asleep.
His parents were locked in their room.
The world outside was dark and unmoving.

But inside him, everything felt unsettled.

He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over his messages.

Her name wasn’t there yet.
Just the number she typed in for him.
Just the quiet possibility of connection.

Two days.
Two days of silence.
Not avoidance.
Not forgetfulness.
Just… hesitation.
And a selfish desire to keep what they shared in that study room untouched by anything else.

But tonight, after everything, he wanted something steady.
Calm.
Warm.
Simple.

He wanted her voice in his phone.
Even if only for a moment.

Just text her. It is not that complicated.

He inhaled slowly, typed the simplest thing he could think of, and hit send before he could overthink it.

Hi. It is Harlan.

He stared at the screen.

One minute.
Two.
Three.

He didn’t realize how tense his chest was until the phone buzzed in his hand.

Hi Harlan.
I was not expecting a message but hi.

The corners of his mouth twitched almost into a smile.

He typed again.

What are you doing?

Her response came fast, like she’d been waiting for a distraction.

Debating.
Either I stay at the library until close or head to Smash Burger before going home.
I cannot decide.

He read it twice.
Then once more.

Something inside him steadied.

He typed without thinking.

I can pick you up.
Take you to Smash Burger.
If you want.

For a moment he wondered if it was too forward.
Too random.
Too clear.

But then her reply came through, bright and immediate.

DEAL.

Harlan exhaled slowly, the smallest spark of something warm easing into his chest.

He stood, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door.

For the first time all night, something felt right.