Chapter 3
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Eighteen—the number itself seemed magical.
To Zoe, turning eighteen meant she was one step closer to Caleb's world.
Caleb's birthday fell in late November, just after Thanksgiving—a date Zoe knew by heart. For two years, she'd only wished him happy birthday silently in her mind. But this year was different. She was eighteen now.
She spent a month creating a drawing with the technical pens he'd given her. It captured the view from their window seat at the coffee shop where he'd first taken her. Every detail was perfect—the texture of each brick, the blurry reflections on the glass. She signed her name in tiny letters at the bottom corner and framed it in simple black.
This Saturday, she would give it to him in person.
She'd checked the Metro-North schedule a week ahead and bought a round-trip ticket with saved allowance money. She told her mom the art club was taking a field trip to the Met and would return late. Her mom didn't question it, just reminded her to be careful.
Saturday morning, she carefully tucked the kraft-wrapped frame into her backpack, heart pounding with nerves and anticipation.
The train ride from Westchester to Manhattan took forty minutes.
During those forty minutes, Zoe's mind raced through endless rehearsals of what might happen.
She imagined Caleb's surprised face when she appeared. He'd call her "kiddo" or "little artist" with that smile of his, accept her gift and praise her improved technique. Maybe he'd invite her for hot chocolate, like their first meeting. Maybe he'd look at her differently...
She was so lost in fantasy that the "Next stop, Grand Central Terminal" announcement startled her back to reality.
Stepping out of the station, Manhattan's familiar yet alien energy engulfed her.
Skyscrapers loomed like silent sentinels above streams of traffic and diverse crowds. Zoe breathed in the unique cocktail of hot dog vendors, subway drafts, and perfume traces. Everything here contrasted sharply with her quiet suburban existence, yet rather than feeling intimidated, she felt an unexpected sense of belonging. This was Caleb's city.
She hadn't warned Caleb she was coming. She wanted to surprise him.
She knew he lived near NYU, but not his exact address.
Her only lead was the social media account of his friend Ben—the most active poster in Lucas's circle. With a flutter of hope, she checked his profile.
The latest update, posted an hour ago, showed clinking beer glasses with the caption: "Celebrating Caleb's first internship! At 'Absinthe' in Greenwich Village. Drinking till we drop!"
Below it, Caleb had commented with an eye-rolling emoji.
Zoe's heart clenched, then soared. She'd found him.
Using her phone's navigation, she walked several blocks toward Greenwich Village. This was her favorite neighborhood—red brick townhouses, quiet streets, independent bookstores and record shops creating a rich artistic atmosphere. Imagining Caleb walking these same streets countless times before made her feel like she was floating.
"Absinthe" occupied an unremarkable corner, marked by a dark green sign under dim yellow lights. Zoe approached the entrance but hesitated. At eighteen, she couldn't get in. The door was closed, but a large window offered a clear view inside.
Like a ghost peering into another dimension, she moved closer to the glass.
The bar hummed with life—warm lighting, loud music, laughter and conversation. Zoe spotted Caleb instantly. Not at the crowded counter, but in a booth with half a dozen friends. He wore that familiar gray hoodie, his face relaxed as he listened to someone telling an animated story.
Zoe's lips curved involuntarily. She reached into her backpack, touching the wrapped frame, ready to approach him when he emerged.
Just then, a girl beside Caleb leaned toward him.
Zoe's breath caught.
She was stunning—dazzling blonde hair, flawless makeup. Her confidence and radiance perfectly matched the bar's vibrant energy. She was Caleb's age, clearly someone who belonged in his world.
The girl leaned to Caleb's ear, whispering something intimate. Caleb tilted his head, listening intently. Then he smiled—not the smile he gave Zoe, but something entirely different. An adult smile, laden with indulgence and suggestion. The girl casually draped her arm over his shoulder, her body nearly pressed against his.
Their friends immediately erupted—some whistling, others pounding the table. Ben, the social media poster, dramatically pointed at the pair, shouting something Zoe couldn't hear but could read on his lips: "Make your move, man!"
Caleb didn't push the girl away. He just shook his head with mock helplessness, that unfamiliar indulgent smile still playing on his lips.
Time seemed to freeze in that moment.
Zoe stood motionless as cold spread through her body, from fingertips to heart. Her mind emptied, ears buzzing, the world's sounds fading until only that painful tableau remained before her eyes.
So he did have someone he liked.
So he was nice to everyone, but for someone special, he was different.
So her precious secret, carefully guarded for two years, was nothing but a childish fantasy.
A cold drop hit the back of her hand. Zoe looked up to find rain falling—when had that started? The light drizzle quickly intensified, feeling like ice needles against her skin in the autumn wind.
Rain blurred the window scene into indistinct smears. The warm light and laughing faces dissolved into chaotic patches of color—just like her dreams, shattered in an instant.
She couldn't watch anymore.
Zoe turned and walked away mechanically. She didn't open her umbrella, letting cold rain soak through her hair, clothes, skin, down to her bones. The picture frame in her backpack now felt like a tombstone, weighing her down until breathing became difficult.
She couldn't recall how she reached Grand Central. She only remembered sitting on the near-empty train back to Westchester, darkness outside broken only by receding city lights. In the window's reflection, her pale, soaked face looked like a stranger's.
The girl who'd ridden into the city forty minutes earlier, full of hope and dreams, had died on that rainy Greenwich Village corner.
She arrived home near ten.
Mom was alarmed by her drenched appearance, but she mumbled excuses about forgotten umbrellas and exhaustion. In her darkened room, she peeled off her cold, wet clothes and collapsed onto her bed.
She lay in darkness for what felt like hours, until her body went numb. Then she suddenly sat up, climbed down, and fumbled beneath her bed for the locked box.
She unlocked it with a key, revealing sketchbooks filled with drawings.
She didn't open them.
She simply closed the box, carried it to her closet, and shoved it into the farthest corner, burying it beneath old clothes she'd never wear again.
Finally, she pulled the rain-dampened package from her backpack. She stood over her trash can, hesitated briefly, then let it drop.
With a dull thud, the frame fell into darkness.
Just like her grand, silent three-year crush, finally coming to an end.
