In Memoriam

I don’t think Marla hears the first knock. She dips her fountain pen again, dragging a line of cursive across the bottom of the page — Chaucer. The ink bleeds slightly. She winces, stretches her fingers, and keeps going.

So I knock again, still standing on tiptoes, peering through the frosted glass of the Head Girl’s chambers. This time, she looks up. Her face softens. It looks like pity, before she's even seen me.

“Come in,” she says, tying her hair up in a ribbon.

The door creaks open. The room is immaculate. Books stacked in precise, spine-aligned towers. The scent of rosewood and clove hangs in the air like something staged, sprayed quickly to mask the coldness that still clings to the corners. But the coffee scent is real — it hangs off the walls. I’ve been here before. Once, at the start of term, when Julian still smiled without effort. It was warmer then. More lived-in.

I pull the sleeves of my jumper over my hands.

“Miss Holloway?” My voice catches, even on that, as I step into the room. My shoes creak on the hardwood. They were a birthday present, and I haven’t worn them in enough. They're stiff. They feel like clogs.

Marla sits framed in the golden 5 p.m. light, shoulders high, blazer crisp, lips red like winter berries. For a moment, I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Something embarrassing.

But she only tilts her head and says, quietly, “You know no one has ever called me that here, Aria.” She stands slowly, blue-green eyes never leaving me. Smiles, just the right amount. Her hands stay at her sides. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t had the chance to speak with you properly. My condolences.”

“They said you’ve been helping organise the memorial.”

“Yes. The Headmaster’s asked me to write something for assembly.” She gestures toward the notebook on the desk. “It’s… difficult. Please, sit wherever you like.”

I nod. Step forward. The sharp scent of my cheap body spray mingles with the clove in the room — it’s thick and cloying. Choking.

“I wanted to ask you. About something. I found in Julian’s room.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, but her shoulders draw up slightly. Barely.

“Oh?”

I reach into my bag. Pull out the book. The cover is warped, blackened at the edges. The gold leaf still gleams, oddly fresh. There’s a note pinned to the front page — carefully folded. I unfold it without ceremony.

For the curious. From Marla.

“Was it yours? It was in his desk. Under a photo of you two,” I say. My voice is steadier now, dull.

She steps forward, studies the page. Doesn’t react to the photo part.

“It is,” she says. Evenly. “I lent him that book.”

“What is it? Some kind of— I don’t know. Latin? I took a few years in primary school. I don’t really remember much.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes drift over the title stamped on the cover, her fingers brushing it with gentle care. She pauses.

“It’s… esoteric philosophy. Very old. Julian was interested in that sort of thing.”

“That’s all? Where did you get it? It looks… ancient. Like something out of a museum. Or an archive.”

Her tone changes — disappointment cloaked in civility. Like I’m being slow.

“Aria, I know you’re looking for meaning. That’s natural. But this isn’t… it’s not what you think.”

“They’re saying he overdosed,” I say, and drop onto the bed. The sheets feel cold, stiff, rough, not right. My voice is brittle. Sharp. “But that’s not… he’s not–”

“There are always rumours,” she says gently. She crosses the room and sits beside me, close but not touching. A strand of her ash-blonde hair escapes the ponytail and brushes my face. Her perfume is sharp and expensive and reminds me of the velvet-lined trophy cabinet in the main foyer. “Especially after something like this. With kids your age. I remember Year Nine. They said I lost my virginity to Jacob Kingston in the girl’s bathroom, middle of Chemistry. It took me three years to shake that rumour off.”

“But it wasn’t. It wasn’t suicide,” I say. I keep my voice steady.

“No. You know what it was.”

“A brain bleed?”

She nods. Smiling like she’s solved a complicated equation in her head. “He must’ve hit his head—football practice. It happens. And then he just…” She sighs. “You know how he was. The coroner is still doing tests, but… I was with him a couple of hours before he went. He was confused. Kept blinking, like the room was spinning. I told him to lie down. He said it was just a headache.”

“But you didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t. We weren’t sure what it was. And you were already grieving. The coroner won’t say until they’re absolutely sure. No one wants to admit that sometimes, the body simply… gives out.”

It sounds rehearsed. Precise. Like she’s reading from a script.

“He was fine that morning.”

“That’s what things like this are like. Sudden. Awful. Quiet. I was there, I saw. His pupils were blown out, and his breath, it drained from him like–”

“–I talked to him the night before,” I cut her off, pushing down the urge to be sick. “He was excited. He said you were working on something big together.”

She nods again. So calm. So precise. I want to throttle her. Or cry into her arms. I don’t know which one scares me more.

“Yes. We were supposed to start drafting the graduation speech.”

The silence in the room thickens. I stare at the book.

“I was...I'll still be there. I'll come,” I say. “To see you. He would want that.” My voice cracks.

She stands.

“Aria,” she says, slow and careful. “I know this doesn’t make sense. I know you want to find a shape to put around this — around him. But the truth is… sometimes things don’t fit. Sometimes people leave us, and all we’re left with is silence.”

“You gave this to him.”

“Yes. Because he asked.”

“Why did he ask?”

“I don’t know,” she says — too quickly.

I nod slowly. Step back. “He changed. In those last weeks. You saw it too. He got quieter. But also— he glowed. He was scared, and he was proud, and he wouldn’t tell me why.”

“He was under pressure. Exams – he’d got that Oxford offer that hinged on him getting all A*s.” Her voice turns sharper, pushing the point into me like a dull blade. “You of all people should know how much he carried.”

That stings.

“Did you make him carry something else?”

Silence.

Then she laughs. Once. A soft, tired sound.

“Aria, what would I have to gain from hurting Julian?”

“I don’t know. But you knew him.”

She smiles at that.

“I did.”

“Were you two…?”

“No, no. We were close. That’s all.” I suddenly feel embarrassed for asking. It's not really a big conclusion to jump to.

“He would’ve told me if you were.”

“He would’ve.” She crosses the room and picks up the book. Cradles it like something sacred. “He was always ambitious.”

“Was he scared?”

Her voice drops to a whisper. “Yes.”

“I miss him.”

“I know.”

“I want to talk to whoever wrote this.”

“You can’t.”

“Why?”

She closes the book. Her thumb traces its edge.

“Because they’re dead,” she says. “Long, long dead.”

“Was he alone?” My throat tightens. I shake it off.

She hesitates.

“No. I was with him, after lights out. I went to the bathroom. Came back. Thought he’d fallen asleep.”

“And then you got a teacher, right? You tried to help?”

“I did. Leave the book with me, or you won’t stop ruminating. It’s not healthy. He would’ve wanted you to live. To move forward. There’s a path out of grief. You just have to choose it.”

I look at her, unreadable, perfect face. I want to ask what Julian saw in her, this perfect, coiled girl with secrets behind her teeth. Because the longer I look at Marla, the less I see her at all. Not the Marla who wrote him birthday poems in iambic pentameter. Not the one who ran up and hugged my brother before I could after the tournament last year. I don't know who I'm looking at.

“Thank you for your time,” I say. Stiff. Heading toward the door.

She sits behind her desk again, watching me. “Aria. Book. My desk.”

I freeze. Turn. Hand it to her.

“Thank you. He loved you, you know,” she says softly.

I don’t let the door slam, but I don’t look back, either. I leave her there, golden and perfect, behind a desk that could be an altar, and hope I never need to return. The corridor is dark now. Maybe I'll finally sleep well tonight.