LIAM:
The auditorium buzzed with excitement — tassels swinging, caps slipping, parents clapping at names called out with pride. This was supposed to be the moment we had all waited for. Freedom. Celebration. Closure.
But for me, it was a reminder of everything I'd lost.
Rows of students dressed in navy blue lined the stage, our names listed neatly on the back of the programs. My name was there too: Liam Hunter, bold and undeserving. It felt heavy on the page, like it shouldn't be printed next to theirs. Especially not next to hers.
Zara's name was missing. But her presence wasn't.
An empty chair sat in the front row, decorated with a single white lily and a photo of her smiling in that way that made the sun jealous. The school said it was to honor her memory. That she'd left a mark too deep to be forgotten.
They were right. She had. On all of us. But most of all, on me.
I sat in the back row with the rest of the graduates, my fingers clenched around my cap as the ceremony dragged on. Speeches came and went — about the future, about how this was only the beginning. But all I could do was stare at that chair. That damn chair.
Two seats down from me sat Levi. He hadn't said a word to me since the funeral. I didn't care to hear from him. Maybe he was grieving too. Maybe he regretted it all. But I didn't care. Nothing would change what we'd done.
Nick was in the front row. He hadn't looked back once. He didn't have to. His silence had spoken volumes every time we passed in the hallway.
When the principal called his name, Nick stood tall and proud, walking across the stage with a steady stride. The auditorium erupted with cheers. Even I clapped. He deserved it.
And when Kaylee's name was called, she looked back at Zara's chair before walking up. She had a white lily pinned to her sash. It broke me a little more.
Then my name echoed through the hall: "Liam Hunter."
The claps were there — polite, scattered, meaningless. I rose, walked slowly across the stage, my eyes not meeting anyone's.
When I received my diploma, I looked to the chair again.
I wished she were here. I wished she were walking up with that awkward, reluctant smile, acting like she didn't care about this moment, but deep down, loving it. She would've worn something under the gown that clashed with every rule. Combat boots, maybe. A messy braid. Her signature bracelet.
God, I missed that bracelet.
I sat back down with my diploma gripped too tightly in my hand. My throat burned.
The ceremony ended in a roar of caps thrown in the air. Photos were taken. Laughter echoed. I stayed seated. Quiet. Watching.
Eventually, the crowd began to thin out. Parents embraced their kids, and friends made promises to stay in touch they'd never keep.
I found myself standing in front of the empty chair. Just me and the photo.
"Hey, Zara…" I whispered, crouching beside it. "We made it. Well… we did. You should've been here. You should've stolen the spotlight."
I laughed quietly through the lump in my throat. My fingers brushed over the photo frame.
"I think about you every day. I still wear the jacket you patched up for me. I keep the note you left on my birthday — the one I never answered. I still remember the stars that night… the way you looked at them like you were meant to be one."
My voice cracked.
"I hope you're at peace. I hope wherever you are… you're happy. Because I'll never stop trying to earn forgiveness. Even if I never get it."
I placed a lily beside the photo, stood, and took one final look.
The others were leaving, laughing. Moving on.
And maybe I would too. Someday. But not yet.
For now, I carried her memory with me.
Because love doesn't just disappear.
Sometimes, it just lives on in the silence, in the regret, in the empty chair that should've never been empty at all.