“What are you doing,” Atticus asks gently.
“Looking up classes,” I reply, scrolling through the local high school’s website, “the ones they’re offering this term.”
Axel blinks. “Classes.”
“Yes,” I say, not looking up, “school.”
Atticus steps closer, confusion clear on his face. “You don’t have to go to school.”
“I know I don’t have to,” I reply, finally glancing up at him, “but I want to.”
There’s a pause, the kind that comes when someone realises they don’t actually know all the pieces of your past.
“I never graduated,” I continue, my voice steady even though the admission still stings, “I was only a few credits short, and I wouldn’t mind getting that diploma.”
Axel’s expression shifts, something like understanding flickering there. “You were close.”
“I was working really hard,”
