The campus of Westborough University buzzed like a hive—drenched in early autumn sunlight, dotted with students hauling books, iced coffees, and dreams. And in the middle of it all walked Adrien Carter.
Six feet two, lean and athletic, the captain of the track team already, known in lectures for asking brilliant questions and in hallways for making hearts race. With tousled black hair, golden skin, and eyes that gave away nothing—he was effortlessly magnetic. The kind of boy professors admired and underclassmen crushed on. The name Adrien Carter was already being whispered across campus like a title.
And yet, in his dorm room—walls still bare, his duffel half unpacked—Adrien sat on the edge of his bed with his phone pressed to his chest. The last text from Ava glowed on the screen:
Mom:
Don't forget to eat, baby. Also, remember to wear your white hoodie on Thursday. Weather says it's going to be chilly!
He smiled. The white hoodie she packed in his suitcase still smelled faintly like home. Like her.
He wasn't going to cry. He'd promised himself that.
But God, the silence here wasn't like home. There was no one knocking his door just to say "I love you for no reason." No one fussing about his laundry, or making pancakes at 10pm because he looked "a little skinny."
There was no Ava Carter, radiating warmth and love like the sun she was.
Even during lunch in the campus quad, surrounded by a dozen teammates and a few girls who giggled too easily, Adrien found himself zoning out. He could hear her voice in his head—"Don't forget your vitamins, mister." "You didn't eat just a protein bar again, did you?"
He wanted to go back in time for just a second and hug her tighter at the train station.
Back in the dorm, his roommate barged in, talking about a party, but Adrien was still in the past. Still seeing her teary-eyed wave. Still hearing her muffled sob through the glass. Still thinking about how Alex had pulled her into his chest, letting her cry the way she used to when Adrien had a fever or scraped knee.
He missed them. Both of them.
He wouldn't say it out loud—he had a reputation to keep. But he missed the clingy, affectionate mom who still kissed his forehead in public, and the father who'd changed—not perfectly, not overnight, but slowly, like stone softened by waves.
Adrien Carter—the It Boy, the golden one—closed his eyes that night and whispered into his pillow, "Night, Mom."
He knew she was probably staring at his baby photos right now, crying over the fact that he wasn't there to finish the pancakes she made too much of.
He smiled again, this time a little sad.
Westborough was big.
But it wasn't home.