Before graduation, our school built a digital time capsule for every senior class. Photos, senior quotes, candid videos—everything was archived onto a private interactive portal, curated as the final monument to our eighteenth year.

The night our class reel was officially uploaded, I clicked the link, scrolled to the video tab, and realized I had been erased.

Across three minutes of footage, Kendall was everywhere: spiking volleyballs under stadium lights, laughing by her locker, standing shoulder to shoulder with Austin as golden hour washed over the bleachers. There was not a single frame of me.

Never mind that I was the one who had spent four consecutive nights awake until dawn, finetuning the cuts, balancing the audio, and colorgrading every clip.

Never mind that the title card at the very end—See you at the top—was a line Kendall had written to me by hand two years ago. In the class group chat, someone asked: Wait, where’s Nate? Weren’t he and Kendall attached at the hip?

Kendall tagged me directly without missing a beat: Nate, stop expecting everything to revolve around you. I promised Austin I’d be by his side in Boston. That wasn’t about you.

A second later, Austin sent a message right beneath hers: I’m really sorry, guys. I just wanted our high school memories to feel clean and uncomplicated. Clean. As if my presence in those four years was something dirty that needed washing away.

To stay on track for the Boston program with Kendall, I had nearly walked away from a guaranteed fullride down south. I had stayed up until two in the morning night after night, drilling calculus problem sets with her over FaceTime.

When she got tired, she went to sleep. When my eyes burned, I pressed my thumbnail hard into my palm to stay awake. It turned out I was the only one running that race.

On the final afternoon before the college portal locked, Kendall sent me the application code for the community college four subway stops away from her Boston campus: Put this down as your safety. Don't apply to my school.

It’ll make things awkward for Austin. I opened my blank portal page and typed in an entirely different eightdigit code. A university down south, fifteen hundred miles from Boston.

From this moment on, no matter how hard it snowed up north, none of that cold would ever touch me again.

The moment the Submit button faded to gray, my phone buzzed on the desk. It was Mr. Davis, our homeroom advisor. "Nate? Are you still in the computer lab? Kendall mentioned Austin's submission page keeps crashing. Could you take a look at it for him?

He's pretty worked up." My hand was still resting on the mouse, the confirmation screen for the southern university glowing softly in the dim room.

Outside, the stadium floodlights were clicking off one by one, plunging the turf into shadow. "I've already locked up and left, Mr. Davis," I said. A brief pause hung on the line, as if he hadn't anticipated me saying no. "All right.

Well, check in with Kendall then. She's in the homeroom with Austin." "Got it," I murmured, and hung up. A second later, Kendall’s name flashed on my screen. Get up here. Just three words. She never used to speak to me like that.

Back in sophomore year, when I dozed off during late study hall, she would fold a piece of looseleaf into a tiny, perfect square and nudge it against my forearm. Inside, scrawled in her sharp cursive, was: Nate Campbell, wake up.

The summit doesn't wait. I kept that slip of paper tucked into the clear sleeve of my blue review binder until the edges yellowed and frayed. Now, that binder sat at the bottom of my backpack, heavy as a cinderblock. I didn't text back.

I had barely reached the front gate when rapid footsteps echoed on the asphalt behind me.

Kendall caught up, her track jacket draped loosely over one forearm, her brow pinched with irritation. "Didn't you see my text?" I stopped under the streetlight. "I saw it." "Then why didn't you come up?" She thrust her phone in front of my face.

The screen showed a screenshot Austin had sent her—an error prompt on the portal. "His page keeps freezing, and the counselors need the final rosters tomorrow morning.

You're the one who knows how to bypass the server cache." I looked at the lock screen on her phone.

Austin’s profile picture was a still from the graduation video—the two of them standing side by side against the sunset, the evening light spilling across their shoulders.

When I was editing that sequence, I had adjusted the color curve three separate times just to get the warmth right. "I had to lock in my own applications tonight," I said.

Kendall gave me a brief, dismissive look. "You're just doing the satellite school next to mine, right?

That form takes five minutes." Her tone was so offhand, so effortlessly entitled, as though my entire future were merely a footnote she had penciled into her own calendar.

I hitched my backpack higher on my shoulder. "I'm done." "Which one did you submit?" I didn't answer.

Kendall frowned, finally peeling a fraction of her attention away from Austin's error screen to actually look at me. "Nate, don't throw a tantrum over this. You don't know anyone in Boston. If you're at the neighboring campus, we'll be close.

I can look out for you." Look out for me. The night the video dropped, everyone in the group chat was laughing and exchanging fire emojis, while I sat in the dark watching those three minutes frame by agonizing frame. I wasn't in it.

Even the director credit at the end had been swapped to Austin’s name. Four nights of my life, wiped away with a single keystroke. "I don't need looking after," I said. Kendall's face hardened.

She reached out toward my backpack. "Give me your blue binder. Austin hasn't finished reviewing the calculus practice exams, and your margin notes are easier to follow." I took a step back. Her hand froze in midair.

She had never asked before taking things from me. My pens, my water bottle, my hoodie, my time. I had always mistaken that entitlement for intimacy. In reality, she was just used to a version of me that never had the spine to say no.

Kendall stared at me, her voice dropping. "It’s just a review notebook, Nate. Are you really doing this right now?" I stayed silent. She reached forward again, grabbing the zipper of the side pocket and yanking it open. The worn blue cover peeked out.

I caught her wrist. "Kendall. Let go." She froze, stunned. Across the courtyard, the campus security guard glanced over.

Footsteps scuffled on the walkway as Austin came running out of the main hall, his eyes already rimmed with red. "Kendall, forget it. Don't fight with Nate. If he doesn't want to lend it to me, it's fine.

I was never as important to anyone anyway." Kendall hesitated.

But then her fingers tightened, and she pulled the binder out of my bag anyway. "I'll give it back tomorrow," she said, looking straight ahead. "He just needs it for the night." As she slipped the binder under her arm, the front cover flapped open.

The yellowed scrap of looseleaf slid into view. Kendall saw it too. The summit doesn't wait. Her handwriting. Austin reached over to take the notebook, his fingers brushing the paper. He let out a soft, breathy chuckle. "That line sounds so familiar.

Wasn't that the outro quote on the video?" Kendall snapped the binder shut. "Yeah." She didn't look at me. "It's just a common phrase. Anyone can use it.

Don't make it about yourself, Nate." I stood by the iron gates, the damp night wind cutting through the thin cotton of my shirt. The security guard called out, "Heading out, son?

Lockup time." I nodded and turned toward the street. "Nate," Kendall called after me.

I didn't turn around. "Seven a.m. tomorrow," she said. "Make sure you're there to help him check the portal." The city bus pulled up to the curb with a hiss of brakes. As the folding doors creaked open, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

Austin had posted a photo to the class group. The blue binder lay open on his desk. The scrap of paper reading The summit doesn't wait was pinned neatly beneath his application draft.

His caption read: Huge thanks to Kendall, and thank you Nate for sharing your best notes with me. Kendall’s comment appeared underneath a minute later: Of course.

My fingers gripped the phone until my knuckles went stark white. "You getting on, kid?" the driver asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror. I stepped onto the bus.

As I reached into my pocket for change, the coins slipped through my trembling fingers and rolled under the front seats. I knelt down to pick them up, the fluorescent glare of the bus overhead turning my vision black at the edges.

The next morning, when I walked into the homeroom, the blue binder was sitting on the teacher's podium. The lower corner of the cover was soaked through and buckled.

Austin was slumped over his desk, his face pale, while Kendall stood beside him, unwrapping a hot breakfast sandwich and setting a thermos of tea by his elbow. "He was up studying until two, and his stomach is acting up," Kendall said, glancing at me as I walked past. "Your notebook's on the podium." I walked over and flipped open the front cover.

The slip of paper was gone. I looked up. "Where's the note that was inside?" Austin sat up slowly, clutching his stomach, his voice weak. "I'm so sorry, Nate. I didn't know it was important. Last night while I was working, my water bottle tipped over.

The paper got totally ruined, and I didn't want the ink bleeding all over your notes, so I tossed it." He finished with a pair of dry, fragile coughs.

Kendall pushed the thermos closer to him. "Drink something warm." Then she looked at me. "It was just an old scrap of paper, Nate." Around the room, a few kids turned in their chairs. "What note?" "Was it another one of Kendall’s motivational postits?" "Man, Nate really hoards everything, doesn't he?" The low chuckles weren't loud, but they landed like small, dull needles.

I closed the binder. The paper was gone. But I had carried those words in my head for three years. The summit doesn't wait.

Now that line belonged to the class video outro, to Austin's Instagram captions, to the endless comments congratulating the two of them on heading to Boston together. It was everywhere, except where it started. Mr.

Davis walked in carrying a thick stack of manila folders. "Final signoff sheets for the senior memory book and video credits. Everyone review your entries and sign on the line." When the clipboard reached my row, I scanned the credits.

Project Lead / Director: Austin Ward. Editing Assistant: [Blank]. I held the pen, motionless. Mr. Davis paused by my desk. "Everything okay, Nate?" "Mr. Davis," I said clearly, "I edited the entire reel." The room went dead silent.

Austin gripped his thermos, his eyes instantly welling with moisture. Kendall spoke before anyone else could. "Mr. Davis, Austin was the one who gathered the raw clips and gave final approval on the cut. Nate helped colorgrade a few scenes.

If he really wants an assistant credit, we can add it." She paused, her voice hardening. "But I don't see why we need to make a scene over a title." Mr.

Davis sighed, looking at his watch. "The file goes to the printer this afternoon, and changing the plates is a headache. Nate, can we leave it as is? Everyone in this room knows how much you helped." Everyone knows.

Yet on every permanent record that would survive high school, my name would not exist. I looked at Kendall.

She avoided my eyes, casually sliding Austin’s pillbox behind his pencil case—a tiny, protective gesture, as if shielding him from the hostility of my gaze.

I clicked the pen and capped it. "Then I'm not signing." Kendall's jaw tightened. "Nate." "If my work isn't on it, my signature won't be either." From the back row, a quiet mutter floated up: It's just a fiveminute video.

Does he have to be so dramatic? Austin stood up, bringing the clipboard to my desk with both hands. "Nate, if it means that much to you, I can give you the director credit. It's okay.

As long as our memories stay clean, I don't care about the title." He pronounced the word give with an unbearable, martyrlike gentleness. As if it had been his property all along.

Kendall put her hand over the edge of the clipboard, cutting him off. "No." She glared at me, her voice dropping into a razorthin chill. "Nate, it's our last week here. Don't make things difficult for Mr.

Davis." My fingertips pressed against the edge of the desk. There was a faint, jagged scratch in the varnish near the corner—made during junior year when Kendall had slipped with a compass while drawing geometric proofs.

She had panicked that afternoon, promising she’d buy me a brandnew desk before we graduated. Now, the room was being packed into cardboard boxes, and she couldn't even remember the promise. Mr. Davis sighed heavily. "Let me just take the sheet, guys.

We're out of time." Kendall pulled the clipboard out from under my hands. I didn't reach for it. She picked up the pen and, right next to my blank signature line, scribbled: Discussed & Confirmed.

The strokes were rushed and careless, deciding my fate for me one last time.

The proof copy arrived from the print shop that afternoon. Before the final bell, the class president brought the glossy mockup into the room, and a crowd gathered around the front desks to flip through the pages.

Austin’s feature page was anchored by the sunset still. Kendall was right beside him. Beneath the photo, embossed in bold gold lettering, was: See you at the top. Someone held the book out toward me. "Hey, Nate, check this out.

The layout looks amazing." I looked down. My name was nowhere on the page. Not even under Assistant. Over by the window, Kendall was leaning against the sill, typing a reply on her phone.

The late afternoon sun caught the sharp line of her profile—the exact angle I had spent hours balancing against the shadows in Final Cut. I realized then that being erased wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was knowing that she was the one who had held the eraser. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

An automated alert from the Southern University admissions portal: Applicant Nate Campbell: Your Departmental Honors Fellowship packet is missing the Counselor Recommendation Verification Form.

Please upload a signed physical scan by 5:00 PM tomorrow, or your fellowship offer will be permanently rescinded. I gripped the phone and walked out of the classroom, heading straight down the hall to the guidance office.

I was about to knock when Kendall’s voice floated through the cracked door. "—Mr. Davis, could you please sign and stamp Austin's recommendation first? His situation is delicate with his family, and Nate's grades are rocksolid.

Nate can wait a day." Through the frosted glass, I heard Mr. Davis hesitate. "Nate needs his recommendation verified too, Kendall.

The southern scholarship deadline is strict." "Austin couldn't sleep again last night," Kendall murmured, her tone gentle and pleading in a way she never used with me anymore. "He can't handle the Boston paperwork on his own. Nate's always dependable.

One day won't kill him." One day. The email clearly said 5:00 PM tomorrow. I stood in the corridor, the paper envelope in my hands crumpling under the pressure of my grip. Inside, Austin whispered, "Forget it, Mr. Davis.

I don't want to cause trouble for everyone. I'm not as capable as Nate anyway. If I don't get into Boston, it doesn't matter." "Don't talk like that," Kendall said immediately. Mr. Davis sighed. "Fine.

I have to head to the district meeting in ten minutes. I'll stamp Austin's now, and I'll do Nate's the second I get back." I pushed the door open. All three of them turned. Kendall’s face froze for a fraction of a second.

I walked straight to the desk and laid my envelope flat on the wood. "Mr. Davis, I need my recommendation stamped today." Mr. Davis adjusted his glasses, looking cornered. "Nate, head back to class for a bit.

Once I finish Austin's, I'll take care of yours." Austin stood up quickly. "Take mine, Nate. You can go first. I can wait." His mouth said he could wait, but his fingers remained clamped tight around the edges of his own folder.

Kendall looked at me, her brow furrowing. "He just needs a quick signature, Nate. It's not going to ruin your life." "It will," I said. The office went silent. I turned my phone screen toward her. "The upload portal closes at five tomorrow. Mr.

Davis has district meetings all afternoon. I don't have time to wait." Kendall took the phone, her eyes skimming the message. Her brow pinched tighter.

It was the first time she realized I hadn't applied to the school next to hers. "Southern University?" She looked up at me, her voice sharp with disbelief. "You applied down south?" Mr.

Davis blinked. "Nate, I thought Boston was your target all along." I didn't offer an explanation.

Kendall handed my phone back, her jaw tight. "Step out into the hall." At the end of the empty corridor, the senior banner fluttered softly in the breeze from an open window.

Kendall stopped by the lockers. "When did you change your list?" "Yesterday." "Why didn't you tell me?" I looked at her. Coming from her, the question was almost comical.

She hadn't asked me when she scheduled my entire future around a satellite campus. She hadn't asked me when she took my notebook. She hadn't asked me when she signed my name on that confirmation sheet.

Now she was asking why I hadn't consulted her. "There was no reason to," I said. Kendall's expression darkened. "Nate, who are you trying to punish right now?" "I'm not punishing anyone." "Then why the hell are you going south?

Fifteen hundred miles away. You don't know a soul there. Where are you going to live? What are you going to eat? Who's going to help you if something happens?" She spoke fast, her breath catching, sounding genuinely frantic.

If this had been six months ago, that flicker of urgency would have made me fold. I would have swallowed my pride, made excuses for her, and walked right back into her orbit. Then Austin emerged from the office, holding his freshly stamped envelope.

The moment Kendall heard his footsteps, she turned away from me. "Did he stamp it?" Austin nodded, his eyes soft. "Kendall, stop arguing with Nate. If he wants to leave, let him leave.

I shouldn't have transferred back here anyway." "Stop talking nonsense," Kendall snapped softly, taking his paperwork from his hands to doublecheck that the seal wasn't crooked. I watched her hands.

Those same hands used to check my SAT bubbles during junior year. The night before the exam, she had sat on my porch, checking every single section with me, saying, Nate, don't worry. I've got you. The patience hadn't vanished.

It just didn't belong to me anymore. I turned on my heel and walked back into the office. "Mr. Davis, can you write my recommendation now? I'll wait here." Mr.

Davis flipped through the agenda on his desk. "Nate, the superintendent is waiting in the auditorium. I have to leave in two minutes and won't be back until fourthirty. Can you scan and upload it before five?" I couldn't.

The school library and computer lab closed at five sharp, and the flatbed scanner in the media center jammed constantly.

I swallowed hard. "I'll figure something out." Kendall suddenly appeared in the doorway. "I'm driving Austin downtown to drop off his materials. There's a FedEx Office on the way. I can scan it for you." I looked at her. "Leave the blank form with Mr.

Davis," she said, her voice softening into something like a peace offering. "When he signs it at fourthirty, I'll swing by, pick it up, and scan it from my phone using their commercial rig." It sounded like an apology.

Or maybe she had simply remembered, for once, that I had something important on the line too. I didn't answer immediately. "Nate," Kendall said, keeping her tone gentle. "Don't ruin your own future just because you're mad at me." Mad at you.

I held those words in my chest, feeling the cold weight of them. At 4:35 p.m., Mr. Davis signed the paper, stamped the official seal, and handed it to Kendall. I was standing right outside the door, reaching my hand out to take it from her.

Austin’s ringtone blared. Kendall answered, and her face went instantly pale. "Stay where you are. I'm coming down right now." She shoved my recommendation sheet directly into her canvas tote bag. "I have to grab him.

I'll scan it the second I get to the car." "Kendall, give it to me," I said, stepping forward.

She was already backing toward the stairwell. "There's plenty of time, Nate!" By the time I ran down the hall to the media center, the lights were off and the deadbolt was turned. The door was locked. At 4:58 p.m., my phone buzzed.

A photo from Kendall. My recommendation sheet was crumpled at the edges, a dark, spreading watermark soaking through the middle of the text. Austin had a severe hypoglycemic episode and dropped his water bottle on my bag, her text read.

The seal is still visible. We'll scan it first thing tomorrow morning. I stared at the screen, then looked at the fellowship portal on my phone. Deadline Expired. Application Forfeited. I stood in the empty, silent hallway for a long time.

Then I typed two words back. Don't bother.

When the fellowship portal permanently locked out my application, I was sitting in the back of the auditorium, helping stack chairs for the commencement ceremony. Mr.

Davis came over, his expression heavy with guilt. "Nate, the guidance office shares the blame for this. I can write a formal appeal letter to Southern University if you want.

Maybe they can make an exception?" I slipped the empty folder into my bag. "It's fine, Mr. Davis. Thank you." It wasn't just the fellowship.

It was the twelvehundreddollar stipend I had planned to use for my train ticket south and my first month's groceries. My dad and I didn't have much.

Just last night, he had been sitting at the kitchen table with an adding machine, telling me that the humidity down south meant we needed to buy lighter bedding, that his old suitcase would hold up just fine, that I shouldn't worry about travel costs.

I hadn't had the heart to tell him what happened. A burst of applause erupted from the front of the stage.

Austin was at the podium, rehearsing his remarks as the salutatorian representative. "—And special thanks," his voice echoed through the speakers, "to the person who stayed by my side in the valley and taught me to look up at the northern sky." A few kids in the front row whistled and cheered: "Kendall!" Kendall was sitting in the first row.

She didn't deny it. She just looked down, a quiet, satisfied smile touching the corner of her lips. I stood by the side exit, the cardboard edges of the folding chairs pressing sharp lines into my palms.

The AV coordinator rushed over, out of breath. "Nate! The sound tech had an emergency. You know the switcher board best—can you cue the final graduation video for the rehearsal run?" I took the remote from his hand and walked up to the sound booth.

On the desktop, the video file was saved under the name: Senior_Reel_Clean_Final.mp4. I looked at the icon for two seconds, then hit spacebar. The threeminute video beamed across the massive projector screen above the stage.

The cheers, the soccer field, the sunset, Austin, Kendall. None of me. When the closing card faded in—See you at the top—the stage lights dimmed to black.

Someone in the front row whispered, "God, that quote fits Kendall and Austin so well." I set the remote down on the mixing console. Kendall turned her head, looking up at the booth, as if bracing herself for me to shout or throw something. I didn't.

After the rehearsal, the senior class crowded around the main steps for the traditional panoramic group photo. The class president waved at me. "Nate!

Get over here!" Just as I stepped onto the riser, Austin, who was standing front and center, suddenly pressed a hand to his chest and leaned forward, his breathing shallow. Kendall caught him instantly. "Austin?

What's wrong?" Austin shook his head weakly. "I'm fine... just crowded. Let me stand on the end. I don't want to block Nate." He made a show of stepping toward the edge.

Kendall held his arm firmly, then looked up at the photographer. "Take the shot now." She glanced back toward the second row, her voice dropping. "Nate, slide back a little. He can't balance." I took a step back. Then another.

When the shutter clicked, I was standing so far to the edge that only half of my shoulder made it into the frame. Ten minutes later, the photo was blasted to the group chat.

Someone commented with a laughing emoji: Why is Nate getting cropped out of everything this week? Austin replied immediately: I am so sorry, guys. That was completely my fault. Kendall added a message right below: Stop making jokes about it.

He takes everything to heart. I stared at her words on the screen. She knew. She had always known that being erased, being uncredited, being signed away, being pushed to the periphery—she knew every single bit of it hurt.

She just never thought it was important enough to stop.

At dusk, seniors were required to log into the school terminal one last time to lock their official matriculation records. I sat at a terminal in the corner, typing in my student ID and password.

When the dashboard loaded, my primary destination was unchanged: Southern University. Standard Admission. No honors stipend. No fellowship housing. I clicked Confirm Matriculation. The door to the lab swung open.

Kendall walked in, holding a printed course guide for the satellite college in Boston. "Nate, enough," she said, setting the paper down next to my keyboard. "I spoke to the admissions liaison.

Your GPA guarantees you a transfer into the main campus by sophomore spring. It's four subway stops from my dorm.

Your dad won't have to worry about you being isolated." I didn't glance at the paper. "I already locked it." Kendall's hand froze on the desk. "What did you say?" On the monitor, the confirmation dialog flashed green: Matriculation Locked.

Changes are no longer permitted. Kendall stared at the screen, her eyes wide, completely uncomprehending.

Then, instinctively, she reached for the mouse. "Can you undo it?" I placed my hand firmly over the mouse. "No." Austin stood in the doorway, his voice barely a whisper. "Nate... are you really leaving?" I turned to look at him.

The relief in his eyes was almost impossible to hide. Kendall didn't look at Austin. She kept her eyes fixed on the words Southern University, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. It was the first time I had ever seen her look utterly hollowed out.

Like a possession she had kept carelessly on the corner of her desk for years had suddenly grown legs and walked out the door. Austin stepped inside. "Kendall, let it go.

Maybe he never wanted to be with us in the first place." Kendall snapped out of her daze, her voice turning brittle. "Are you happy now, Nate?" I reached into my backpack, pulled out the waterdamaged blue binder, and placed it on the desk between us. "Take it," I said.

Kendall frowned. "This is yours." "The only thing that mattered inside it is gone." I picked up the proof copy of the senior memory book, opened to the sunset spread, and laid it beside the binder. "And that quote belongs to you now." Kendall stared at me, the color rapidly draining from her face. "What are you talking about?" "I'm saying," I spoke evenly, "whether you see each other at the top, or whether it snows in Boston—you don't ever need to call me for it again." The lab was deathly quiet, save for the low, continuous hum of the CPU cooling fans.

Kendall reached out and grabbed my wrist. Her grip wasn't violent, but her fingers were digging in, trembling slightly. "Nate. Stop trying to scare me with this." I looked down at her hand.

During the winter of junior year, she had grabbed my wrist the exact same way.

It had been freezing outside, my fingers stiff and purple from the wind, and she had shoved my hand into the warm pocket of her parka, saying, Next winter, we'll watch the Boston snow together. I peeled her fingers off my wrist, one by one.

She didn't have the strength to hold on. "Kendall," I said quietly. "I'm not scaring you." I zipped my backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and walked past her.

As I reached the door, the sharp scrape of an office chair knocked backward broke the silence. "Nate!" Kendall shouted. I paused at the threshold.

She looked as though she had a thousand sentences clawing at her throat, but when she finally spoke, all that came out was: "Are you really going that far?" I turned back to look at her under the harsh fluorescent tubes.

The stubborn pride of an eighteenyearold girl was still there, but beneath it, the panic was real. It was just too late. "It's only fifteen hundred miles," I said. "I ran a lot farther than that just trying to keep up with you."