Chapter 2: Autumn Leaves, New Beginnings

I was married to Ethan Callahan for seventy years; he passed away at the age of one hundred.

It was a long, winding journey together, full of quiet moments that fill up a lifetime. We celebrated birthdays with homemade chocolate cake, watched fireworks from our porch every Fourth of July—sparklers fizzing in our hands, the smell of grilling burgers in the air—and collected postcards from road trips we never finished. I remember one Thanksgiving when we argued over cranberry sauce and didn’t speak for a week, only to laugh about it years later. But when the end came, it was as gentle as the first snowfall—soft, silent, inevitable.

He left with a gentle smile.

The nurses said he seemed at peace, that he squeezed my hand one last time before drifting off. I remember how his eyes softened, as if he’d finally found a little corner of happiness in all the chaos.

But I stood up and looked out the window.

Outside, the world kept moving: cars zipped by, students laughed in the park below, and the crisp autumn air carried the scent of distant barbecue. I felt the distance between my life and theirs—a chasm that had opened up over decades of compromise.

I thought, if there is a next life, I don’t want to be Ethan Callahan’s wife again.

It was the first truly honest thought I’d had in years. I wanted something different, something that belonged only to me.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the college campus outside the window, lined with old maple trees.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting dappled shadows across the sidewalks. The world felt new, like the first morning of fall semester when everything seems possible.

Dazed, I felt a piece of chalk hit me.

It bounced off my desk, leaving a faint white mark on my jeans—the rough denim scratching against my skin. The sudden jolt snapped me out of my reverie, pulling me back to the present.

"Lillian Brooks, repeat what I just said."

I stood up and saw the aerodynamics professor at the podium, looking at me in surprise.

Her voice was sharp, but there was a twinkle of amusement behind her glasses. The classroom buzzed with restless energy—laptops open, coffee mugs steaming, the scent of cinnamon rolls wafting in from the hallway.

Someone jeered, "Professor, she’s not in our class, she just came to sit with her boyfriend."

A few students snickered, the kind of teasing that comes easy when you’re young and the stakes feel low.

The professor gave me a long look, about to turn and continue writing on the whiteboard.

Ethan Callahan, sitting beside me, suddenly said, "She’s not my girlfriend."

His voice was calm, but there was a hint of tension—a subtle edge that made everyone pause. The words hung in the air, and the whole classroom fell silent.

I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, the scratch of my jeans against the plastic chair.

It was the kind of silence that makes you aware of every breath, every glance. I felt my cheeks flush, and for a moment, it was as if time had rewound itself.

At this time, Ethan was young, but already more mature and composed than most people.

He sat with his arms folded, eyes steady and unyielding, hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms. There was a gravity to him, the kind that draws people in but keeps them at arm’s length.

He was always cold, aloof, and he had caught my attention from the very first moment I saw him.

He had that quiet confidence—never needing to raise his voice to command the room. I remembered the first time I saw him, leaning against the stacks in the college library, a Starbucks cup balanced on a pile of quantum mechanics books.

Now, he was still distant and indifferent, letting everyone process the awkwardness on their own.

He didn’t flinch or offer explanations. Instead, he let the silence stretch, as if daring anyone to challenge him.

I smiled slightly; he was just as he had been in my previous life.

The familiarity was almost comforting, even if it came with a hint of sadness. I knew this version of Ethan too well.

I said, "Yes, professor, I’m not his girlfriend, nor am I a student in your class."

"Sorry for interrupting, I’ll head out."

I gathered my things, trying to look nonchalant. The room was still, every eye on me as I made my way to the door.

Ethan paused as he turned the page, blocking the exit and not letting me pass for a long time. The strap of his backpack brushed my arm, and I caught a whiff of his cologne—clean, sharp, familiar.

He didn’t say a word, just held his ground. The moment stretched, a silent standoff that made my pulse race.

After class, the professor called me outside.

Before speaking, she tapped my forehead with her finger: "Honey, you’ve gotta stop chasing after him. He’s not worth it."

Her tone was half teasing, half serious—the kind of concern that comes from family, wrapped in exasperation. She wore her favorite cardigan, the one she always said made her feel like a real professor.

I nodded, "I can tell, Aunt Carol. I won’t audit classes anymore."

I tried to sound sincere, even as my heart twisted. The truth was, I’d been chasing after Ethan for so long, I didn’t know how to stop.

My aunt didn’t believe me and asked again before returning to her office.

She lingered for a moment, searching my face for any sign I was lying. Then she sighed and headed down the hallway, her sensible heels clicking against the tile.

Someone called out to me from behind, ran over smiling, and put her arm around my shoulder. "Lillian, want to hit Ben & Jerry’s? The new pistachio flavor is amazing—my treat."

Savannah Lee was always the life of the party, her laughter ringing out like bells. She wore her hair in a messy bun, sunglasses perched on top, and her smile was infectious.

Seeing me shake my head, Savannah beamed, then quickly changed her invitation: "Then come over to my place and check out my new flat-screen TV! You have no idea, the picture is so clear. I’ll stream Taylor Swift’s ‘All Too Well’ concert on Netflix."

She wiggled her eyebrows, nudging me playfully. "It’s practically a crime not to watch it on the big screen."

"Let you go wild, let you indulge, hoping one day you’ll be moved~"

Savannah made a fist, pretending it was a microphone, and sang the lyrics. "We should hit up Karaoke at The Foxhole soon!"

Her voice was off-key, but her enthusiasm made up for it. I couldn’t help but laugh.

I smiled faintly. "I’m about to go abroad, so I’ve got a ton of paperwork and packing to do—visa interviews, transcripts, all that. I can’t hang out."

I tried to keep my tone light, but Savannah caught the wistfulness in my voice. She squeezed my arm, her eyes searching mine.

Savannah wrapped her arm around mine, sighed in disappointment, and asked, "So what should I do?"

Her lips twisted in a pout, and she gave me that look—half pleading, half dramatic—that always made me want to say yes.

"You and Ethan can be together, you won’t need me tagging along. It’ll be easier for you both."

I said it gently, but the words hung between us, heavier than I intended. Savannah’s smile faded, her grip loosening.

Savannah slowly let go of my arm, her smile fading.

She stepped back, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, uncertainty flickering across her face.

When I looked up again, I saw Ethan; he was leaning against the door not far away, his head tilted back against the wall. He wore a faded Michigan hoodie and beat-up sneakers, slouched with his hands in his pockets.

He looked almost bored, but his eyes were sharp, tracking every movement. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows behind him.

Hearing our voices, he looked over. "Don’t worry about her, let her do her thing."

His words were clipped, almost dismissive. He stepped forward and took the bag from Savannah’s hand. "Thanks."

He didn’t look at me, but his words cut deep.

I felt the old ache flare up, the sense of being invisible, even when standing right in front of him.

Seventy years is a long time, and I hadn’t seen a scene like this in ages.

But hearing it now, my heart still stings.

It was like hearing an old song on the radio—the melody familiar, but the lyrics still hurt.

In the past, I would have tried every way to dull the pain, until it became part of me.

I remembered all the ways I’d tried to make myself smaller, to fit into the spaces Ethan left for me. It was exhausting, and I was done with it.

I said, hesitating, fidgeting with my sleeve, "Aren’t you going to ask when I’m leaving?"

My voice was steadier than I felt. I wanted him to care, just once.

Ethan sneered, but Savannah frowned and interrupted, asking, "Lillian, when are you leaving? Why are you suddenly going abroad?"

Savannah’s concern was genuine, her brow furrowed as she waited for my answer.

I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the sun, looking down the corridor. "When the leaves start to change."

I watched the golden light spill across the hallway, the promise of autumn just beginning to show in the trees outside.

"It’ll be soon."

My voice was quiet, but certain. I could feel the change coming, like the first cool breeze after a long summer.