When She Promised Stanford

When she was seventeen, Autumn Reyes said she wanted to go to Stanford with me. I still remember the way she said it—voice bright, eyes daring, like she was daring the world to tell her no. It didn’t sound formal or planned, just something she tossed out there, like it was obvious.

I remember her saying it with that wild, determined grin—like it was a promise she carved into the air between us. But then she laughed and punched my arm, like she was only half-serious. Back then, it felt like nothing could shake us. We were invincible, or at least I thought so. For a moment, I believed it too, the way you believe in summer storms or shooting stars. Maybe I even let myself hope. But life had other plans.

Until she fell for the school heartthrob—

Everything changed so fast, like the snap of a rubber band. One day we were side by side, and the next, Autumn was orbiting someone else. Her world spun out of reach from mine. I watched it happen, helpless. Like watching the tide pull something precious away. And there was nothing I could do.

They skipped class to run wild in the rain, got into fights behind the gas station after school, crashed at cheap motels, and then she had an abortion. I remember hearing about it, and for a second my mind just... blanked. I couldn’t process it. I kept thinking, No, not Autumn. Not her.

Their names started showing up in whispers and rumors—everyone knew about their wild nights, the trouble they stirred. The rain-soaked afternoons, the shrill laughter echoing in the parking lot, the bruises and secrets. I heard it all, even when I tried not to. When word spread about Autumn’s abortion, it hit our small town like a thunderclap. People whispered behind locker doors, but no one dared say it to her face. I just listened, numb.

They loved fiercely and recklessly, like the leads in a coming-of-age tragedy. Sometimes I wondered if they even noticed how much people watched them, waiting for the crash.

It was the kind of love you see in indie movies—messy, raw, beautiful in its own broken way. Like something out of Euphoria or a Lana Del Rey song. They burned so bright, it almost hurt to look at them.

They burned so bright, it almost hurt to look at them.

Meanwhile, I wore my letterman jacket and went back and forth between home and school. They laughed at me for being a nerd, for wasting my youth. “Hey, Evans, you ever gonna do something fun? Or just marry your textbooks?” It stung, but I pretended not to care. I’d tell myself, Whatever. Let them talk.

I’d walk the same hallways every day, jacket zipped up, backpack heavy with textbooks. I’d hear the snickers, the little jabs—“Hey, Evans, you ever gonna do something fun?” I tried to let it roll off my back, but it stung more than I’d admit. Still, I kept my head down and did what I was supposed to do. Someone had to.

That year, during the SATs, both of them failed—barely scraping into a community college. I almost felt bad for them, but mostly I just felt... tired. Like all of this was inevitable.

I saw their names on the posted results, way down near the bottom. Mason didn’t care, but Autumn looked like she’d been punched in the gut. Still, she shrugged it off, acting like it was all part of the plan. I knew better. She cared. I could see it in the way she gripped her backpack strap, knuckles white.

And me? I was the state’s top scorer. I had to give a speech in front of everyone.

The gym was packed, banners hanging from the rafters. My palms were sweating as I took the stage. I could see faces in the crowd—some bored, some expectant. But my eyes kept searching for Autumn. I couldn’t help it.

My eyes swept over Autumn, who was watching me with a complicated expression from the audience, and I gripped the microphone. For a second, I wondered if she’d look away. But she didn’t. Not yet.

She was sitting near the back, arms folded, her face unreadable. I felt something twist inside me. I swallowed hard and began. “I’ve never believed youth has to be wild.”

My voice sounded steadier than I felt. The words echoed through the gym, bouncing off bleachers and banners. I could feel people shifting in their seats, waiting to see if I’d say something controversial. My heart hammered in my chest.

“Real youth is about learning to take responsibility for your own life.”

There was a hush, the kind that makes your ears ring. I let the silence hang for a moment, my gaze landing on Autumn one last time. She looked away, but I caught a flash of something—regret, maybe. Or just old memories. I wondered if she remembered, too.

On the day of the final exam, after the results came out, I moved from second to first in the class. I should have felt proud, but all I felt was empty.

It was official: my name at the top of the list, printed in bold black ink. It should have felt like victory, but instead it felt hollow. I remembered all the late nights, the shared snacks, the whispered promises. Now it was just me, alone at the summit. Just me. Alone.

The teacher congratulated me, but there was a hint of regret in her eyes. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her face.

She patted my shoulder, forcing a smile. “Well done, Noah. I always knew you could do it.” But her eyes kept flicking to the empty seat where Autumn used to sit. Like she was wishing things could go back to how they were.

"Autumn was always close to you. How did her grades drop so much lately? She used to be first, now she’s barely in the top two hundred."

The words hung in the air, heavy as lead. I didn’t know how to answer. My throat felt tight, like I’d swallowed a stone. I just shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

Another teacher shook his head, disappointed, and said, “She started dating too early, that’s all.”

He muttered it under his breath, but everyone heard. There was a kind of finality to his tone, as if Autumn’s story was already written. I hated how quick people were to judge.

"That Mason Carter too, not only doesn’t study himself, but drags good students down with him."

I quietly walked out of the office. As I passed the hallway, I saw Autumn and Mason sharing a cigarette. My stomach twisted.

The hallway reeked of cheap menthol. Mason was leaning against the wall, his arm slung around Autumn’s shoulders, the picture of cocky indifference. They looked like they owned the place.

Mason blew a puff of menthol smoke right into Autumn’s face, then smiled and stuck the cigarette between her lips. He was showing off, and she let him.

He grinned, daring her to take it. The flicker of his lighter caught the sharpness in his eyes. He wanted everyone to see.

Autumn didn’t refuse—she took it and started smoking like she’d done it a hundred times. I’d never seen her do that before. It was like she’d become someone else overnight.

She inhaled, lips pursed, then exhaled a perfect ring of smoke. I’d never seen her do that before. It was like she’d become someone else overnight.

She wasn’t wearing her school uniform, but a matching black T-shirt with skulls on it, just like Mason. They looked like a team, a rebellion in black cotton. The kind of couple you see in a music video—untouchable, dangerous.

Mason saw me, nudged Autumn, and smirked: “Isn’t that your childhood friend? Go say hi—he’s top of the class now.”