Critiques and Writer's Discussion

Chapter One Hundred & Elven: Part Two Amber stood abruptly. She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t look at him. She just walked into the half bath and closed the door behind her. Paul watched the door for a moment longer than he meant to, then looked away, focusing instead on the orange peel curled in his hand like something abandoned. Then— The sound of the toilet flushing. Running water. Normal sounds. Everyday sounds.   Paul’s body heard them before his mind could protect him.  Because control was something he held manually now, not automatically. He felt it first as a loosening. Subtle. Internal. A signal his muscles recognized before he consciously did. His stomach dropped. No. He shifted slightly in the armchair, breath catching—not enough to stop it. Not enough anymore.   His bladder simply… let go. Warmth spread slowly, deliberately, without permission.   Paul froze.   His face went hot instantly, the heat rising up his neck into his ears, his chest tightening with a humiliation so familiar it almost felt scripted. He stared straight ahead, willing the moment to disappear.   It didn’t.   The bathroom door opened. Amber stepped out, drying her hands on a paper towel, her posture loose, casual, unaware for exactly half a second.   Then she saw him. Saw his stillness. Saw his face. And Amber—because she was still angry, because cruelty was still easier than compassion—smiled.   Not kindly.   “And that’s how big girls use the potty, sweety,” she said, her voice dripping with valley-girl sweetness sharpened into a blade. She laughed lightly, tilting her head. “Wanna try and be a big boy?”   Her laughter echoed thinly in the padded room. Paul didn’t move. Didn’t react.   Because reacting would confirm it. Because reacting would give her ownership over it.   Amber’s laughter faded as quickly as it came, replaced by something colder. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Her jaw tightened.   “Honestly, Paul,” she said, her voice flattening, “be a big boy for Christ's sake and tell Declan you quit, we’ve been here for almost two hours, it’s nearly eight am.”   Paul lifted his head slowly. His embarrassment hadn’t vanished. It had changed shape. He felt exposed—but also strangely calm.   Because what else could she do to him that hadn’t already happened?   “Nah,” he said evenly. “I’m good, Amber. I mean I’m NOT quitting, period, plus I don’t really have to do anything in school since I have the credits and then some to graduate, its not like my future relies on mid terms or projects.”   He tilted his head slightly, letting the faintest grin touch his mouth.   “Do yours?”   Amber’s face changed. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a tightening around her eyes. But Paul saw it. Saw the truth land.   Amber’s entire life depended on performance. On maintaining the illusion of effortlessness while working twice as hard to keep it real. Scholarships. Expectations. Reputation. He’d just reached into that machinery and flicked a switch.   “You smug little bastard,” she muttered.   Paul leaned forward slightly.   “What was that?”   Amber’s hands curled into fists at her sides.   “Screw you Paul,” she snapped. “Like seriously you little shit after everything—”   She stopped. Her breath hitched.   Her voice caught on something deeper than anger.   “…your still that selfish boy who I sat with at your mother’s funeral.”   The words hit harder than anything she’d said before. Because they weren’t an insult. They were a memory.   “You don’t get to—”   “Your right Paul I don’t get to,” Amber cut in quickly, her voice breaking at the edges. “And I wouldn’t.”   Her chest rose sharply.   “But YOU don’t get to judge me or the me I became while you were away.”   The room shifted.   Something fragile entered the air. Something neither of them could easily destroy. Amber’s voice changed.   “I think its absoultely bullshit Paul that everybody always takes your side,” she said, the words trembling despite her efforts. “The little boy who never grew up because you lost your mom.”   Her eyes burned now—not with rage, but with something far more dangerous.   Pain.   “Meanwhile my dad left me and my Mom and what?” she continued. “I am a second class citizen?”   Paul stared at her. He’d never heard this part. Never imagined it.   “You know how much that hurt me Paul?” she said, her voice cracking openly now. “No of course you really don’t because the real truth about you Paul is you care about YOU over anybody else and sure its not because your a bad person, but you're just a dumb ass, which is probably why you really don’t have many friends anyways.”   Amber laughed bitterly, wiping quickly at her cheek. Not dramatic tears. Honest ones.   “My mom and I had to move,” she said. “Not across the country. Not somewhere exciting. Just… smaller.”   She swallowed.   “A smaller apartment. Smaller everything.”   Paul felt something inside him sink.   “But your dad,” she continued, quieter now, “your dad still paid for my tuition here. Bishop Gate. He made sure I stayed.”   She shook her head slightly.   “I don’t even know if you knew that.”   Paul hadn’t. The realization hit like delayed thunder.   “We barely had anything for a while,” Amber said. “My mom stopped eating dinner some nights. She’d say she wasn’t hungry. Said she’d eaten earlier.”   Amber let out a hollow breath.   “She hadn’t.”   The padded walls absorbed her voice, but they couldn’t absorb the truth inside it.   “She worked nonstop,” Amber continued. “And I learned really fast that nobody was coming to save us. So I saved myself.”   She straightened slightly.   “I made new friends. Friends who called me back. Who showed up.”   Her eyes found his again.   “And you didn’t.”   Paul’s throat tightened.   “I waited,” she admitted softly. “At first. I waited for you to call. Or text. Or… anything.”   She laughed once, broken.   “You never did.”   Paul’s chest ached now. Not from shame. From recognition.   “I buried you,” Amber said simply. “Buried the friendship. Because it hurt less than waiting.”   Silence filled the room. Amber’s voice dropped further.   “And then you came back.”   She looked at him fully now.   “And it felt like maybe… maybe this was a second chance.”   Her lips trembled faintly.   “We could’ve talked. We could’ve said the things we never got to say. Maybe then you realized you hurt me.”   She inhaled sharply.   “But instead… you just expected everything to go back to normal.”   The words landed gently. Cruelly.   “And even worse,” she whispered, “you thought we could have loved each other.”   Paul’s breath caught. Amber shook her head.   “Maybe we could have,” she admitted.   Her voice broke.   “But a selfish boy stood in the way… when a selfless man would have asked first.”   The words didn’t hit like a punch. They hit like truth. Paul sat frozen. Because she wasn’t wrong. His mind flickered through memories like broken film.   Lilly, standing in the kitchen, trying to reach him while he pushed her away. His father, offering guidance Paul dismissed without listening. Mama Kim, her voice calm and certain in the car, telling him what he needed to hear—not what he wanted.   And Amber. Waiting. Calling. And eventually stopping.   Paul had told himself he was the victim. He hadn’t asked who else was bleeding. He hadn’t seen that while he was grieving, Amber had been surviving.   The worst part wasn’t her anger. It was her honesty.   For the first time since the door had closed behind them, Paul didn’t feel defensive. He felt exposed. Not as a boy in diapers. As a person who hadn’t known how to love properly when he’d had the chance. And across from him, Amber stood trembling—not with rage anymore, but with release.   The hallway outside the rehearsal suites still carried the quiet of early morning, that suspended hour where Bishop Gate Academy belonged more to its ghosts than its students. The overhead lights hummed low, flickering faintly over polished floors and framed posters of past productions—Hamlet, West Side Story, The Crucible, Les Misérables. Each one frozen mid-moment: actors caught in anguish, defiance, love. Faces lit by stage light that existed now only in memory.   Declan stood at the center of it, planted like something old and rooted.   His shoulders were broad beneath his charcoal wool coat, posture relaxed but immovable. One hand rested loosely in his pocket, the other held the walkie talkie at his side, fingers curled around it not like a device—but like responsibility.   Behind him, the rehearsal room door remained closed. Silent. Holding its storm.   The sharp clap of heels echoed down the corridor. Fast. Unapologetic.   “Declan.”   Her voice carried before her body did—strong, unmistakable, and edged with that unmistakable New York steel.   “Declan Michael O’Rourke, you bettah not tell me what I think you’re about to tell me.”   Julia emerged around the corner, blazer already on, dark curls still slightly undone from sleep but her eyes wide awake and blazing with purpose. She moved toward him with the kind of presence that made people step aside without being asked.   She stopped three feet from him. Her hands went to her hips.   “Please,” she said, her accent sharpening the word into plea and accusation all at once, “tell me you did not lock those two kids in a room togethah.”   Declan didn’t move. Didn’t soften. Didn’t retreat.   He met her fire with calm.   “Aye,” he said simply, his Cork accent thickening around the single syllable. “They’ve been in there since six this mornin’.”   Julia blinked. Once. Twice. Her mouth fell open in disbelief.   “Six?” she repeated, the word cracking slightly under the strain. “Six in the mornin’? Declan, are ya kiddin’ me right now?”   She stepped forward, reaching instinctively for his arm—not in anger, but in urgency.   Declan shifted just enough that her hand caught only air. Not rejection. Respectful distance.   “Julia,” he said gently, but firmly.   Her eyes flashed.   “No,” she cut him off, pointing at the door. “No, you don’t get to ‘Julia’ me right now. Those are my students in there. My kids. You don’t just lock them in a damn room like they’re—”   She stopped herself. Declan’s jaw flexed.   “They’re actors,” he replied quietly.   Julia scoffed.   “They’re eighteen.”   Declan met her eyes evenly.   “So was I,” he said.   That stopped her. Not completely. But enough.   Her voice softened—just slightly.   “This isn’t Dublin,” she said. “This isn’t the Abbey Theatre in ’89.”   Declan’s mouth curved faintly.   “Aye,” he said. “Thank God for that.”   A flicker of shared history passed between them then. Unspoken. Heavy.   They had stood together in more storms than anyone here knew. Julia folded her arms.   “You remember Chicago?” she asked suddenly.   Declan raised an eyebrow.   “Which disaster?”   “Anthony Ruiz,” she said immediately. “Opening night. Broke his hand in the wings and still went out there.”   Declan exhaled slowly.   “Aye,” he murmured.   “He didn’t go out there because he was forced,” Julia pressed. “He went because he was ready.”   Declan nodded once.   “And he was ready,” he said gently, “because someone gave him the space to decide that for himself.”   Julia’s jaw tightened. She hated when he did that.   When he turned her own arguments into mirrors. Her chest rose and fell once. Twice. Declan waited. Let her breathe. Then spoke.   “We have the show,” he said quietly.   Not defensive. Devotional.   “The show.”   He gestured toward the posters lining the walls. Toward the history. Toward the lineage.   “And they’re at each other’s throats.”   Julia shook her head.   “So we mediate,” she snapped. “We talk to them. We guide them. That’s what teachers do.”   Declan’s jaw tightened slightly—not in anger, but conviction.   “They’ve had guidin’,” he replied softly. “They’ve had talkin’. They’ve had protection.”   “And none of it’s worked.”   Julia stared at him. Declan stepped closer now, lowering his voice—not to weaken it, but to focus it.   “Tá croí acu don stáitse,” he said quietly. (They have hearts for the stage.)   He placed his palm flat against his chest.   “But hearts only grow strong when they’re tested.”   Julia’s voice softened, but didn’t surrender.   “They’re hurt, Declan.”   “Aye,” he agreed. “They are.”   His eyes flicked briefly to the door.   “And hurt people either learn how to stand back up… or they spend their lives waitin’ for someone else to do it for them.”   Julia swallowed. Her fingers curled tighter at her sides.   “You can’t force healing,” she said.   “No,” Declan agreed.   Then, gently: “But you can give it space to begin.”   Julia looked at him like she wanted to argue more. Like she wanted to break the door open herself.   Because that was who she was. Protector. Advocate.   The woman who had built her entire career refusing to let students fall through cracks. Her voice dropped.   “They’re eighteen,” she said. “Not thirty-five.”   Declan nodded.   “Aye.”   Then, quieter still: “And this is when it matters most.”   He lifted the walkie talkie slightly.   “They’ve food. Water. A bathroom.”   His thumb brushed the button.   “They can call me anytime.”   Julia frowned.   “You can hear them?”   Declan shook his head.   “No.”   He turned the device so she could see.   “One-way radio. They choose when to speak.”   He met her eyes.   “I won’t steal their words from them.”   Julia stared at the door again. Then back at him.   “You really believe this is gonna help?”   Declan didn’t hesitate.   “I believe,” he said, his Irish rolling thick and steady, “that the stage doesn’t belong to children.”   He nodded toward the door.   “It belongs to those brave enough to stand on it when their hearts are breakin’.”   Silence stretched between them.   “What exactly are you expecting to happen in there?” she asked.   Declan didn’t hesitate.   “Either they get back on the same page,” he said evenly. “One of them quits.”   He paused. Then finished it.   “Or both quit.”   Julia’s eyes widened.   “The show—”   “Will survive,” Declan said firmly.   His voice dropped lower. “But only if it’s built on truth.”   Julia’s shoulders rose. Fell. She turned away, already walking down the hall.   “Julia,” Declan called after her.   She didn’t stop.   “Coffee?”   She waved a hand dismissively, that New York edge sliding back into place.   “Already ordah’d it,” she said. “It just got here. I’m goin’ to pick it up.”   She paused briefly. Without turning.   “…You bettah be right about this.”     The room had gone quiet in the way only emotional exhaustion could make it quiet.   Not peaceful. Not calm. Just emptied.   The crimson and black padded walls seemed to absorb whatever had been said between them, swallowing the sharp edges of anger and leaving behind only the heavy residue of truth. The Bishop Gate Academy crest gleamed faintly in gold at the center of the far wall, catching the sterile overhead light like something ceremonial.   Something permanent.   Amber sat curled in one of the black office chairs, knees drawn tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around them like she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.   She wasn’t crying anymore. Not visibly.   But the aftermath of it lived all over her face—flushed skin, reddened eyes, lashes clumped faintly where tears had dried. Her breathing had slowed, but not fully steadied. Every inhale still carried that faint tremor of someone who had said more than they ever intended to.   Across the room, Paul remained in the upholstered armchair.   Still. Small. Lost.   His hands rested limp in his lap. His backpack leaned against the side of the chair like an extension of him now—not just something he carried, but something that carried him. Inside his chest, shame had built a home. Not the sharp kind. Not the kind that screamed. The quiet kind. The kind that whispered.   You failed her. You failed yourself. You failed everyone.   His jaw tightened. His eyes burned. He stared at nothing.   Until— He looked up. And saw her.   Not Amber the fiancée. Not Amber the social force of Bishop Gate Academy. Not Amber the girl who had wounded him with surgical precision.   He saw Amber as she was now. Curled inward. Fragile. Small. And suddenly— His mind betrayed him with memory. He saw her not as she was today. But as she had been once. Five years old. Six. Sitting exactly like that. Knees to chest. Arms tight around herself. After her cousin had died. After Martina had raised her voice one evening—not in anger, but in exhaustion—and Amber had disappeared into herself like she’d done something unforgivable simply by existing. He remembered sitting beside her then.   Not speaking. Not fixing. Just being there. Because even back then, Amber had carried more than most people ever saw.   She was stronger than him. She always had been. But when Amber broke— She broke completely.   And seeing her like this now…Meant something. It meant that beneath the anger— Beneath the cruelty— There was still a wound that had never fully healed.   Paul swallowed hard. His throat ached. And his mind— Unbidden— Dragged him backward. Yesterday afternoon. The couch. The warmth. The safety. He could feel it as clearly as if he were still there. The soft fabric beneath him. The gentle weight of Lilly’s arm wrapped loosely around his waist from the side, holding him not to restrain—but to anchor. He had been dressed in nothing but his long-sleeve safari-print onesie, the soft cotton worn smooth from washing. The pacifier clip—matching safari pattern—rested against his chest, the pacifier itself dangling unused but present. The television glowed in front of them. Bryan’s face filled the screen. His father sat in his Tokyo hotel room, the harbor skyline behind him glowing in blues and whites and distant red aviation lights blinking across the night sky. The reflection of his laptop screen lived faintly in the glass behind him.   He looked tired. But present. Fully present.   Bryan leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees.   “How are you really feeling about the play, bud?”   Paul remembered hesitating. Because the truth lived in layers.   “I love it,” he said finally, his voice quiet but certain.   His throat tightened as he admitted it.   “I love being on stage.”   Bryan’s expression softened. Not surprise. Recognition. Because Bryan knew his son. Had always known him. Even when Paul had been too lost to know himself. Lilly’s arm tightened slightly around his waist then, and she leaned her cheek briefly against his temple.   “You were born for it,” she murmured softly, the words meant only for him—but Bryan heard them anyway.   Paul blinked. He didn’t feel born for anything lately. He felt broken.   “I just…” Paul hesitated. “Even before Amber, the diapers freak me out.”   The words felt humiliating and honest all at once.   “I know I can do it. I know I can still perform. But I keep thinking… what if something happens?”   He swallowed.   “What if I let everyone down?”   Bryan didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence breathe. Because silence made room for truth. Then—   “Paul,” Bryan said gently, “do you know what the stage really is?”   Paul frowned slightly. Bryan continued.   “It’s a place where people go to tell the truth.”   He leaned closer.   “And truth isn’t perfect. Truth is messy. Truth is vulnerable. Truth is terrifying.”   He paused.   “And that’s why it matters.”   Paul’s throat tightened. Bryan’s voice softened further.   “It takes real maturity to stand in front of people and risk being seen.”   He let that settle.   “But it also takes maturity to walk away if staying means losing yourself.”   He didn’t tell Paul what to choose. He trusted him to choose. Lilly shifted beside him then, and Paul felt her hand slide up to cup his cheek gently, turning his face toward her. Her eyes were soft. Warm. Certain.   “You deserve to be on that stage,” she whispered.   Her thumb brushed lightly beneath his eye.   “You’ve spent your whole life becoming someone who could stand there.”   She smiled faintly.   “I’ve seen you perform, Paul.”   Her voice trembled slightly with emotion.   “You don’t just act. You become something bigger than yourself.”   She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple.   “The world deserves to see that.”   Paul’s chest tightened.   “You don’t belong in the shadows,” she added softly.   Bryan nodded in agreement from the screen.   “But whatever you choose,” Bryan said, his voice steady and unwavering, “you won’t lose us.”   “Ever,” Lilly whispered.   Her arm wrapped tighter around him then. The memory faded.   And the room returned. The crimson walls.   The hum of fluorescent lights. Amber across from him. His chest tightened. He blinked rapidly and wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm. His tracker flickered in his mind.   Yellow. Green. Yellow. Green.   Unstable. But improving. Slowly. He stood. The bulk between his legs shifted his stance slightly—subtle but undeniable. His body reminding him of everything he was trying to be stronger than. Amber noticed. Her knees lowered instinctively from her chest. Her eyes followed him. Watching. Waiting. Paul walked toward the table.   Each step deliberate. Each breath measured.   He stopped across from her. Close enough to matter. Far enough to protect himself. He swallowed. His voice came out quieter than he intended.   “Amber…”   She didn’t respond. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t protect herself.   He forced himself to continue. “I think…” He paused. His throat tightened.   “I think you’re right.” The words hurt to say.   Physically. Emotionally. Existentially.   He pushed through it. “I wanna support everybody.”   His voice trembled slightly. He steadied it.   “The cast. The show.”   He forced a small, brittle smile that didn’t reach his eyes.   “So I’m gonna tell Declan that I quit.”   Amber’s expression didn’t change. Not immediately.   Paul continued anyway. “I know I’m probably not gonna be invited to your wedding…”   He swallowed hard.   “So consider this an early wedding gift.”   The words tasted like surrender.   “I hope you like it.”   His face remained composed. But his eyes betrayed him. The pain lived there.   Unhidden. Unavoidable.   Because this wasn’t just about theatre. This was about letting go of the last version of himself that still believed he could belong in her world. He stood there. Waiting.   Not for forgiveness. Not for gratitude. Just for recognition.   That he had finally chosen something bigger than himself. Even if it broke him to do it.   Amber didn’t answer him. She couldn’t. Because the boy standing in front of her now wasn’t the boy she had spent the last hour dismantling piece by piece.   He wasn’t the boy she’d mocked. He wasn’t the boy she’d accused. He wasn’t even the boy she’d convinced herself she hated.   He was— Breaking.   Her chest tightened. Because in that moment, Amber didn’t see Paul the way she wanted to. She saw him the way he really was. Not just the regressed version she’d witnessed in her living room a week ago—small, fragile, dependent in ways she hadn’t known how to process. And not just the performer she’d watched command a stage with terrifying ease—confident, magnetic, untouchable.   She saw both. At the same time. Layered over each other.   The boy who could bring an audience to silence with a single line. And the boy who sometimes couldn’t trust his own body to hold itself together. And suddenly— Her mind pulled her backward. To her couch, last Sunday.   Amber had been sitting curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked beneath her, arms folded tight across her chest—not defensive, not exactly, but contained. Martina had crossed the room slowly, deliberately, carrying two mugs of tea.   Chamomile.   Amber’s favorite since she was small.   She handed one to Amber without a word, then lowered herself beside her on the couch—not crowding her, not retreating. Close enough to be felt. Far enough to be chosen.   Amber accepted it automatically, curling her fingers around the warmth.   For a while, neither of them spoke. The quiet between them wasn’t empty. It was familiar. Martina broke it gently.   “Marcus’s family called today.”   Amber smiled faintly into her mug.   “They did?”   Martina nodded.   “They’re preparing the estate for Thanksgiving. Your tío Javier already asked which room you want.”   Amber laughed softly.   “The one with the balcony.”   “Of course,” Martina said, amused. “La princesa necesita su vista.” The princess needs her view.   Amber rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed.   Her voice softened.   “He makes me feel calm, Mami.”   Martina didn’t react immediately. She studied Amber’s face carefully, the way only a mother could—reading the spaces between expressions.   “¿Calma?” Calm?   Amber nodded.   “He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t expect me to be perfect. He just…” she searched for the word, “…lets me exist.” Martina reached over and took Amber’s hand, rubbing her thumb gently across her knuckles.   “Eso es raro.” That is rare.   Amber looked at her. Martina smiled softly.   “And it is precious.”   Amber swallowed. Because she knew Martina wasn’t talking about Marcus alone. They sat like that for another moment. Then Martina asked, carefully:   “¿Y la obra?” And the play?   Martina didn’t react outwardly. But Amber saw it. The awareness. The preparation.   “We fought,” Amber said.   Martina waited. Amber exhaled slowly.   “He threw a pie in my face.”   Martina blinked. Then— She laughed. Not mockingly. Not dismissively. Warmly.   “Claro que sí.” Of course he did.   Amber frowned.   “What?”   Martina smiled faintly, lost in memory.   “You and Paul used to make mud pies in the yard,” she said softly. “And throw them at everyone.”   She paused.   “Especially each other.”   Amber’s chest tightened. Because she remembered. She remembered being five. Six. Laughing. Running. Not caring who saw. Martina’s smile faded gently.   “And now,” she said quietly, “you both throw words instead and they stain and sting worse than mud ever could.”   Amber looked away. Her jaw tightened.   “He should quit,” Amber said flatly. “His life is too messed up. He doesn’t belong there anymore.”   Martina went still. Not angry. Not offended.   Just… disappointed.   “Amber,” Martina said softly.   Amber looked back at her. And saw something she rarely saw in her mother. Sadness.   “I love you,” Martina said.   Her voice trembled slightly.   “And I love him too.”   Amber’s throat tightened.   “I am not choosing sides,” Martina continued. “I never will.”   She squeezed Amber’s hands again.   “But it breaks my heart to see two people I love treat each other like strangers who would ignore the other if they started choking.”   Amber blinked hard. Martina leaned forward slightly.   “Tell me something, mi corazón,” she said gently. “When you graduate Bishop Gate…”   She paused.   “What will your legacy be?”   Amber blinked. The question caught her off guard.   “My legacy?”   Martina nodded. Amber thought for a moment. Then answered.   “I was rookie captain for field hockey.”   Martina smiled.   “Yes.”   “I was vice president of student council.”   “Yes.”   “I was Homecoming Queen sophomore year.”   Martina’s smile widened.   “And?”   Amber hesitated.   “I had leading roles in My Fair Lady. Easter Parade.”   Martina pulled her into a hug. Tight. Proud.   “Estoy muy orgullosa de ti.” I am very proud of you. Amber closed her eyes briefly, letting herself feel it. Then Martina pulled back slightly.   “And if you had moved from city to city,” she asked softly, “would you still have that legacy?”   Amber frowned.   “No.”   Martina nodded gently.   Then—   “What will Paul’s be?”   Amber froze. Because she didn’t know. Because she had never asked. Because she had never considered that he might have lost something she had been allowed to keep.   Martina’s voice softened further.   “You both could share this one,” she said quietly.   “This play.”   Amber looked down.   “And if you choose to walk away,” Martina added gently, “I will support you.”   She lifted Amber’s chin carefully.   “But make sure it is because you want to.”   “Not because you are afraid.”   The memory shattered. Amber snapped back into the present. Paul stood in front of her.   Still waiting. Still breaking. Still offering himself as sacrifice.   And suddenly— She couldn’t let him do it. Her chair scraped violently against the floor as she shot to her feet.   “NO.”   The word ripped out of her before she could stop it. Paul blinked in confusion. Amber’s chest heaved. Her hands trembled at her sides.   “I’ll quit,” she said.   Paul froze.   “I’ll quit so you can have the play.”   Paul stared at her. Confused.   “No,” he said quickly. “No, Amber, it means more for you.”   Amber shook her head violently.   “No.”   “Yes,” Paul insisted weakly. “You’re more popular.”   Amber laughed. Not humor. Truth.   “That doesn’t matter.”   Paul blinked. Amber’s voice broke slightly.   “I was wrong.”   The admission hurt. But it freed something too.   “You have more talent.”   Her throat tightened.   “And I really—”   She stopped herself. Because some truths weren’t ready to be spoken yet. Their eyes met. And for a moment—   Everything stopped. Not fixed. Not healed.   But— Seen.Recognized. Understood.   Not as enemies. Not as lovers. Not as friends.   But as two people who had once mattered deeply to each other. And maybe— Still did.     The hallway outside the rehearsal wing didn’t feel like a hallway anymore. It felt like a waiting room. Not the sterile kind—this was Bishop Gates, all polished stone tile and framed posters from past productions, the faint smell of varnish and old paper and whatever the cafeteria was frying two buildings over. But the air carried the same pressure as a hospital corridor at shift change. The same sense that something important was happening behind a closed door, and the people on the outside were powerless to rush it.   Declan stood with his back to the wall, arms folded, posture composed like he could will patience into the building itself. He looked older in this light—more lines around his eyes, more weight in the way he held still. His coffee sat untouched in his hand, cooling by the minute.   Julia couldn’t stand still.   She paced a narrow loop between the trophy case and the nearest theater poster—My Fair Lady, last spring, Amber at the center of it, smiling like she’d never had to fight for oxygen in her own life. Julia’s heels clicked sharply, a metronome of worry. Every few seconds her eyes darted up to one of the LED screens mounted in the hallway like a quiet surveillance of time.   8:44 AM. The second digits blinked. 8:45 AM.   Foot traffic began to thicken—students streaming in from the main entrance, backpacks slung low, earbuds in, the noise of their lives rising like tidewater. Laughter, lockers slamming, someone calling out a nickname, the squeak of sneakers on tile.   Normal life.   Right outside an abnormal moment.   Julia looked like she might scream.   “Declan,” she hissed, low enough not to turn heads, “this has gone on long enough. You don’t just—lock two seniors—”   Declan’s gaze stayed forward, calm in a way that made her want to shake him.   “They’ve water. They’ve food. They’ve a loo,” he said, his Irish cadence steady, controlled. “They’re safe.”   “Safe isn’t the point,” Julia shot back, New York biting hard on the s. “We’re not running a damn boot camp. We’re running a school.”   Declan finally turned his head, and for a moment his calm cracked—just enough for Julia to see the ache underneath it. The man who wasn’t just a director, but a believer. A man who’d built his whole adult life around the idea that art could hold people together when everything else fell apart.   “This isn’t about punishment,” he said quietly.   Julia’s eyes flashed. “Then what is it about?”   Declan’s jaw flexed.   “It’s about saving the show,” he answered. Then, softer, like admitting something he didn’t want to say out loud: “And maybe saving the two of them from themselves.”   Julia opened her mouth—   And then the walkie-talkie hissed. A faint crackle. Static like a match being struck in the quiet.   Both of them froze.   Declan’s hand tightened around the device.   The hallway noise seemed to dip, like the world itself leaned in to listen.   Then a voice came through—tinny, clipped by distance, but unmistakable.   Amber: “We’re ready…”   Declan’s face shifted so fast Julia almost missed it—relief fighting dread, hope fighting the fear that hope had been stupid. Julia stepped forward instinctively, her heart doing that teacher thing where it didn’t matter how professional she tried to be—she cared.   She whispered, almost inaudible: “Oh no… Amber’s out?”   The radio crackled again—one sharp burst of static. Then another voice, quieter, rougher, like it had scraped itself raw and still showed up anyway.   Paul: “To come out now. Please open the door.”   Julia’s stomach dropped.   She turned toward Declan, anger flashing hot and protective.   “BOTH?” she said out loud, voice sharp enough that a couple students passing nearby glanced over. “We’re losing BOTH of our stars, Declan.”   Declan looked, for the first time all morning, like a man who’d been punched in the gut.   His calm faltered. The color in his face shifted. He swallowed, hard.   “Ah, Jaysus…” he muttered under his breath, more prayer than curse.   His hand fumbled for the keyring at his belt, suddenly less confident, suddenly not the brilliant director with a plan, but a tired man watching his plan maybe collapse.   Julia reached for the key.   Declan hesitated for half a beat—then handed it over.   Julia’s fingers were steady even though her whole chest felt too tight.   She stepped to the door. The handle turned. The latch clicked.   And the rehearsal room opened like a held breath finally released.   For a fraction of a second—before their faces came into full view—Julia braced herself for tears, for rage, for the ugly quiet of defeat.   But then— Amber stepped out first. And Paul stepped out with her.   Together.   Not touching, not laughing, not magically healed—nothing that fake. But they were standing in the same doorway, shoulders angled toward the same direction, sharing the smallest thing that still mattered: alignment.   Amber’s mouth pulled into a brief, almost reluctant smile. Paul’s expression—tired, bruised in places you couldn’t see—shifted with it.   Not joy. Not forgiveness. But something like: We survived the room.   Declan stared at them like he didn’t trust his own eyes. Then his voice came out fast, Irish thickening with emotion he tried to leash.   “Well?” he demanded, stepping closer. “What’s it to be then—lad and lass—ye both going, staying, or a bit of both?”   The hallway noise seemed to fall away again. Students flowed around them, but this moment held its own gravity. Amber looked at Paul. Paul looked at Amber.   There was a beat—a hesitation so human it hurt. Like both of them needed permission from the other not to make this worse.   Then, as if they’d rehearsed it, they spoke together. It didn’t start confident. But it ended that way.     “Staying.” "Both of US are."   Julia’s shoulders sagged with relief so sudden she almost had to grab the wall. Declan’s eyes closed briefly, like he was thanking every patron saint of theater he’d ever muttered to in an empty auditorium. When he opened them again, he was Declan—director, coach, guardian of the work.   “Right,” he said firmly, the calm snapping back into place, but now it had steel inside it. “Then ye both understand what that means.”   Amber’s chin lifted. Paul’s posture straightened, even with the subtle weight of everything he carried under his clothes. He looked older in that second, not because his life had gotten easier, but because he’d chosen something hard anyway. Declan took a step closer, lowering his voice.   “The play comes first,” he said. “Not your pride. Not your history. Not your wounded feelings.”   His gaze pinned Amber.   “Ye have a bad day? Ye leave it outside the stage.”   His gaze pinned Paul.   “Ye have a bad moment? Ye don’t make it the cast’s problem.”   He let the words hang.   Then he added, quieter, deadly serious:   “If either of ye can’t do that—if I see even a whiff of sabotage, or spite, or spite disguised as professionalism—then I’ll not hesitate to make either of ye the new understudy.”   Amber’s throat bobbed. She nodded once. Paul swallowed. Nodded too.   Declan exhaled, the edge softening just a fraction. “But,” he said, and the word carried genuine warmth, “I’m glad to have ye back.” Before turing and walking away.   Julia stepped forward then, the teacher in her steadying the human in her.   “I know how hard it is,” she said, voice gentler now, New York rounding into something warmer. “At your age… it feels like doing the right thing costs you everything.”   Amber’s gaze flickered down. Paul’s eyes didn’t. Not fully. Not like he wanted to meet Julia’s gaze and risk looking too breakable. Julia smiled anyway.   “But it’ll be worth it,” she said softly. “For the show. For your futures. For you.”   Then—because she was a teacher, and because teachers always wanted the symbolic gesture that made the world feel orderly again—Julia lifted her brows.   “Okay,” she said. “Now hug. Make up.”   Amber’s expression tightened. Paul’s jaw flickered. A whole lot of no passed between them without a word.   Then, with the kind of bravery that looked like awkwardness, they stepped toward each other. The hug wasn’t warm. It wasn’t tender. It was careful.   Two people with bruises trying not to press on the sorest spots. Paul’s arms went around Amber’s shoulders briefly, his hands placed like he was trying to be respectful, like he didn’t want to claim anything that wasn’t his to claim. Amber’s arms wrapped around his upper back. For a second it looked like she might pull away fast— Then she didn’t.   She held it an extra beat. Not long enough to heal years. But long enough to say, quietly: I’m not throwing you off the cliff today.   Paul began to loosen first. Amber didn’t. Her hand stayed on his wrist a heartbeat longer, fingers closing lightly like she was reminding him—and herself—that he was real. Then she stepped back. Her friends’ voices cut through the crowd like knives wrapped in glitter.   “Amber!” “Girl, come on!” “We’re gonna be late!”   Amber’s face shifted instantly into that version of herself the hallway understood—polished, composed, moving like she belonged. But as she turned away, she glanced back once. Just once.   Paul watched her disappear into the stream of students, his expression caught somewhere between relief and loss. He exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. Then his body reminded him—quietly, practically—of the next reality.   He shifted his weight. Felt the bulk between his legs. Felt the subtle pull of time, of pressure, of what his body needed next.   A change. Before home. Before the day tried to become too much again.   Paul turned the opposite direction from Amber, backpack sliding onto his shoulder, posture steady in that way that didn’t erase his fear but refused to let it steer. He walked. And the hallway swallowed him like it swallowed everyone—another student moving through the morning, another story in the sea of the student body.     The point of view shifted. Not to another face. To paper.     A crumpled legal pad, corners bent, the surface scarred with frantic notes and heavy lines. The handwriting was familiar now—messy, angular, impatient. The kind of writing that looked like it had been done by someone who pressed too hard, like they needed the ink to cut into the page.   At the top: PAUL GOLDHAWK Under it— STRIKE ONE  STRIKE TWO    A new line sat beneath them, written in thick red ink, so fresh it looked wet:   STRIKE THREE   Then a voice—male, low, threaded with menace and something almost amused—whispered close, as if right behind the page.   “That’s strike three, Goldy-locks…”   A soft breath. A smile you could hear.   “We’re gonna have to take you out of the game after all.”    

well paul stood up for himself to amber im so glade to see that! but she has a smol point what if something happends on stage who will be there to bail him out? god damit amber just leave already!

I would certainly say I'm definitely biased towards Rearz and Incontrol diapers because they are a Canadian company but I'm always up to trying different diapers from around the world.  You never know when you might find a rose amongst the thorns.

I wrote out a long-winded reply but realized I can't quite put into words what I wanted to say, so I procrastinated and started reading Madison's Code instead, which turned out to be the best story I think I've ever read ^.^ What I can say, though, is that your stories are quite educational due to how they challenge the popular definitions of good and bad like you mentioned there! And I'm not saying nasty people doing nice things and vice versa isn't realistic - it totally is! There sure is no such thing as plain one or the other. But I do think this is actually what often makes us readers so emotional, because it completely eschews the traditional singular notions of good and bad we grew up with, making it feel wrong in a way?  

Part 44. When we reached the bathroom, I sat Besty down on the edge of the tub and leaned over to plug the stopper. The water began to flow, a soft rush echoing against the porcelain. Steam curled upward, warming the air. As the tub slowly filled, I said casually, “We need to go to the store and get some bubble bath for my baby.” I paused, the words hanging in the air. Oh no, I thought. I just called Besty a baby—she’s probably not going to like that. But when I turned around, she was smiling at me, eyes bright with amusement. So I asked playfully, “Does my baby want bubble bath stuff?” She nodded with a grin, clearly enjoying the moment. “Alright then, baby,” I said with a chuckle. “I’ll buy you some.” As the tub continued to fill, I gently undressed her. It didn’t take long—just a top and a diaper. She stood quietly, letting me help, her trust evident in every movement. When the water reached the right level, I turned off the tap and carefully lifted her into the tub. The warmth enveloped her, and she let out a soft sigh as she settled in. “I’ll be right back,” I told her, stepping out to gather her diaper supplies and set everything up on the changing table for later. When I returned, she was sitting quietly in the tub, her arms resting on the sides, legs stretched out, looking absolutely adorable. Her hair was damp at the ends, and her cheeks were flushed from the heat. She looked up at me with a calm, contented expression. I knelt beside her, wet the washcloth, added a bit of soap, and began her bath with gentle care—each motion deliberate, each touch reassuring. The room was quiet except for the soft splash of water and the occasional hum of the faucet. It felt like a moment suspended in time, simple and tender. I began by gently washing her back, letting the warm water and soft cloth do their work. She sat quietly, her shoulders relaxed, the steam curling around us like a blanket. I moved down to her feet, taking my time, then worked my way up her legs with care, making sure she felt safe and comfortable. When I reached her hips, I helped her kneel slightly so I could continue. She adjusted without hesitation, trusting me. I paused for a moment and said softly, “Can you spread your legs a little?” She did, and I gently washed her front, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. But she remained calm, her expression serene—like this was just another part of her day. Once I was done, I helped her sit back down and finished by washing her chest, moving slowly and gently. She looked peaceful, cared for, and completely at ease. When the bath was finished, I lifted her out of the tub and wrapped her in a warm towel. She nestled into it, her body damp and relaxed, and I dried her off with quiet attention. Then I carried her over to the changing table and put her into a fresh, clean diaper, the pinning of the diaper pins sealing the day behind us. With everything settled, I picked her up again and carried her to bed. The room was dim, the air cool, and the sheets soft beneath her. I tucked her in gently, smoothing the blanket over her shoulders. She looked up at me, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are you coming to bed too?” I smiled and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “I just need to lock up the cabin,” I said. “I’ll be back in a bit.” She nodded, her eyes already growing heavy with sleep. And as I stepped out into the quiet hallway, I felt the stillness of the night wrap around us—safe, steady, and full of quiet promise. She gave me a sleepy smile and nestled into the covers, her body sinking into the warmth of the bed. After checking the doors and windows, I returned to the bedroom and paused for a moment at the doorway. Besty was already asleep. Her thumb rested gently in her mouth, her breathing slow and steady. She looked peaceful—almost angelic in the soft glow of the room. I smiled quietly to myself, moved by the innocence of the moment. Feeling the weight of the day settle into my bones, I got ready for bed and slipped under the covers, letting the quiet of the cabin lull me to sleep. Sometime during the night, I stirred. At first, I wasn’t sure what had woken me. Then I felt it—Besty had tossed her leg over mine, her body warm and relaxed. The soft bulk of her diaper pressed gently against my skin. She was still sound asleep, thumb tucked in her mouth, completely at ease. As I lay there, I could feel her diaper getting warm. I smiled again, quietly. Seeing her so relaxed and secure made me feel grounded too. I shifted slightly, careful not to disturb her, and drifted back into sleep. When morning came, light filtered through the curtains in soft streaks. Besty had rolled onto her side, still sucking her thumb. I wondered if it had been there all night—a quiet comfort she never let go of. As I lay there, I started thinking about how the day might unfold. After a little while, Besty stirred, blinking sleepily before greeting me with a cheerful, “Good morning.” “How did the baby sleep last night?” I asked playfully. She smiled and replied, “Great.” “You looked so cute sucking your thumb most of the night,” I added with a grin. She blinked in surprise. “What are you talking about? I wasn’t sucking my thumb.” I raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh really? I think the evidence says otherwise.” She giggled, burying her face in the pillow. “Okay, maybe a little.” While we lay there in the soft morning light, something her mom had once said came to mind—about how kids often find comfort in the simplest routines. I reached over and gently checked Besty’s diaper through the leg opening of her plastic pants. “Well,” I said with a chuckle, “you definitely put that diaper to good use—it’s soaked.” She gave a sleepy grin, clearly unbothered. I got out of bed and started to get dressed, then paused, remembering how much Besty enjoyed seeing my morning wood as my mom likes to call it, as part of our morning routine. I then called her over to the changing table to help her get ready for the day. She climbed up with ease, and I went through the familiar motions—cleaning her up, applying powder, and fastening a fresh diaper with care. After breakfast, I got dress and then grabbed a t-shirt for Besty. We had plans to take the sailboat out, and the morning was shaping up to be perfect—clear skies, a gentle breeze, and the lake shimmering like glass. As we walked down to the dock, we were both surprised to see a few other boats already out on the water. It was usually quiet this early. I turned to Besty and said, “Maybe we should head back to the cabin and grab you a pair of shorts.” She waved it off with a smile. “Don’t worry about it. They’re far enough away—no one can tell I’m wearing a diaper.” I nodded, admiring her confidence. We spent about two hours out on the sailboat, letting the wind carry us across the lake. The rhythm of the water was soothing, and Besty seemed completely at ease. A couple of boats drifted close enough that they might have noticed, but she never said a word. She just leaned back, soaking in the sun and the moment. When we returned to the dock, I helped her out of the boat and got a better look. Her diaper had clearly done its job—it was time for a change. After I got her changed, I told Besty we needed to sit down and talk about how the next six weeks were going to go. We’d settled into a rhythm, but I wanted to make sure we had structure—something steady to guide us through the days ahead. I laid out the plan: Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays from 10:00 to 1:00, I’d focus on drawing house plans, and she’d work on her school assignments. That way, she could mail them off to the school by Friday afternoon. Besty had recently been accepted into a special academic program—one that allowed her to take a single college course per quarter. If she passed, she’d earn college credit, giving her a head start when she officially enrolled. It was a big opportunity, and she was proud of it, even if she didn’t always say so. She nodded thoughtfully. “That schedule works for me.” “Great,” I said with a smile. “Let’s get started in about fifteen minutes and knock today out of the way.” We grabbed some snacks and drinks from the kitchen and headed out to the deck table. The morning sun was climbing higher, and the air was warming quickly. Within ten minutes, we were both focused—me sketching out elevations and floor plans, her bent over her notebook, pencil tapping lightly as she worked through her assignments. The temperature kept rising, and Besty had been drinking plenty of water—something I knew would catch up with her eventually, and I had a pretty good idea where it would end up. A little later, she walked over to me, raised her arms, and said simply, “Hot.” I understood right away and helped her take off her top so she could stay comfortable. She returned to her seat without missing a beat, settling back into her work like it was the most natural thing in the world. About fifteen minutes later, she stood up beside her chair for a moment. I glanced over and recognized the look on her face—the subtle shift in posture, the quiet pause. She adjusted slightly, then sat back down and continued working as if nothing had happened. I made a mental note: I was definitely going to be changing a stinky diaper soon.