Free Now — Maggie Gray
Stella
“Stella, the Uber will be here in five minutes,” my mother yells up the stairs.
“One second!” Thunder booms, muffling my response. I was really hoping for some sun now that I’m back home in New York, but it’s just as dreary as it’s been at school in London for the past week—I swear it never stops raining there.
Just my luck.
Rain pounds on the roof and my lights are off; only the dim light from outside illuminates my room. It’s almost 3:00 PM, but the storm makes it feel much later. A streak of lightning interrupts my thoughts and I sit up straight, legs folded in criss-cross. The lightning flashes, highlighting my empty suitcase lying at the foot of my bed. I despise packing. At this point, packing up my life and flying six hours across the Atlantic Ocean is practically a weekly occurrence since my mother requires my presence in New York for every single event. I’ve attempted almost every excuse in the book: I have schoolwork, I can’t miss my art show, I have an important speech to prepare for. They never work. My mom is too deep in New York society to accept any excuse I give her—she truly believes, “we must present ourselves together when in society,” as she tells me so often. I think that’s stupid. I couldn’t care less about what “society” thinks.
I think that's the main reason why my mother and I are different. Our only similarities are our physical features: straight blonde hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. My eyes have a hint of green in them, but no one ever notices it. Not even my mother.
I quickly stuff my clothes into the suitcase, grab my toiletries, and sit back, staring at the messy pile of clothes and bags. That’s good enough. I don’t have time to fold my clothes, so I zip up the suitcase and—wait, my jewelry. I scoot over to my desk and reach to the top, my hand blindly searching for my jewelry case. But instead, my hand brushes over a smooth piece of paper: an envelope. An overwhelming sense of dread falls over me when I realize what it is. I know it’s going to ruin my already bad mood, but still, I grab it.
My stomach twists, tears already threatening to fall. And yet, I pull out the folded paper letter addressed to me. Unfolding it, I see the familiar, neat handwriting sprawled across the page. I don’t know why I’m torturing myself but I feel a pull to read it again—as if there's something I can do to change his decisions. But those thoughts fade as I begin to read his letter for the second time since he sent it a week ago.
12/4/22
Dear Butterfly,
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write. My hands won’t stop shaking, and my heart feels like it's shattering into pieces I’ll never find again. But I need to do this—for you, for us—even though it’s tearing me apart.
I have to let you go.
I can’t explain why. Please don’t think for a second that it’s because I don’t love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything, more than words could ever say. But life has pulled me into a place where staying isn’t an option. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t.
You’ve been my everything, my light, my laughter, my safe place. You’re my Butterfly. I’ve watched you flutter into my life, filling it with colors I didn’t even know existed. But butterflies aren’t meant to be held too tightly. They’re meant to be free, to soar. And as much as I want to keep you close, I can’t clip your wings.
Every moment with you is etched into me: your smile, the way your hand fits perfectly in mine, the way you say my name like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’ve made me feel alive in ways I never thought possible.
But I can’t be what you deserve, not now, not like this. And it kills me to walk away, knowing I’m leaving you behind. You’ve always been my heart, my hope, my home. But this is a goodbye I have no choice but to give.
I hope one day you’ll understand. I hope you’ll remember that I loved you with everything I had, even when I couldn’t stay. And I hope you’ll keep soaring, my Butterfly, spreading your light wherever you go even when life is against you.
I love you, I’m sorry,
Jacob
The thick lump in my throat grows tenfold as the letter falls to the floor. It doesn’t make sense. Not a single word. I have the same unanswered questions swarming through my head. If he loves me, why can’t we stay together? Did he find someone else?
I clench my fists at the thought, my nails digging into my palms, deeper, deeper. My vision blurs as tears well in my eyes.
Nononononono.
A faint buzzing fills my head and the drumming of the rain increases, creating a chaotic noise as the rest of the world fades away. Tear after tear begins to make their watery descent down my cheek and neck. One after another, pouring down my face like the rain outside my window. My body shakes as I fight to suck in a deep breath, and I can hear my breathing getting louder by the second. I cover my face with my hands and bring my legs close. I squeeze my eyes shut, my gasping sobs filling the cocoon of my arms and legs. I’m clawing at my skin, pulling at my hair, and pressing my palms into my temples in hopes it will stop my absurd crying. But my tears are uncontrollable. I kick my legs in the air, wanting nothing more than to scream.
Why is it always me?
I can’t be too loud, my mother might hear. So I suppress my wails, leaving only the sound of the rain shooting bullets into the roof.
It feels as though I’ve been crying for so long—even though my tantrum only lasted a couple minutes—that my ribs hurt and I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs.
I can’t breathe. I can’t—
I need him.
I feel the need to cry more, but my eyes are dry.
Empty.
A hollow feeling fills me. I hold my legs close to my chest and lean my head back. I take in the grey lighting filling my tiny room filled with furniture. It feels like the walls are getting closer, as though the furniture isn’t there—leaving me, my suitcase, and the stupid, crumpled letter alone. It lies on the floor next to me, ruined. Distorted. Broken. I feel as if someone is clawing their hand through my chest and shredding my heart to pieces before discarding the leftovers on the floor next to me, forcing me to confront my freshly broken heart while listening to the brewing storm.
“Stella,” my mother’s stern voice echoes from the bottom of the stairs. Her voice pulls me out of my depressing trail of thoughts and back into my tortuous life. “The Uber is here.” She’s closer now, stomping dramatically up the stairs. “Your plane leaves soon. It’s—” she stops. I assume she sees me: puffy, red-eyed, with tear stained cheeks. I assume she knows I was crying. “I don’t have time for this. I have dinner with friends soon. Your plane leaves in 1 hour, and if you don’t go downstairs now, you’ll miss it.”
She was hesitant at first, it seemed, but that didn’t stop her from spewing those cruel words at me. She just doesn’t understand. She never does.
I don’t look at her. I bet she's standing there with one hand on her hip, the other on the doorknob, as she waits in the doorway with a frown on her face—the same position she assumed when she lectured me as a kid. But I don’t look at her, instead I stare straight, as if with zero thoughts clouding my mind. I stare through my window, outside, past the dying cedar trees, surveying the endless sky. I stare at the roofs poking out between the trees, the houses that hold a loving family with happy lives. I stare at the rain falling heavily, each drop sliding down my window.
This is the kind of weather butterflies drown in. I remember reading that in a book a few years ago. I stare at anything and everything, but her. The cedar trees' leaves droop from the heavy rain, though the green color is still permanent. As it will always be. As it will always be in my eyes, yet no one notices it.
Except for him.
Jacob
2 days later
The familiar train station slowly pulls into view. I’ve been here many times when visiting my love, Stella, at boarding school. I smile at the thought of her. Her twinkling brown and green eyes that light up whenever she sees me are engraved in my mind. I can already hear her silly laugh—I can’t wait to see her. It’s only been two weeks since we broke up, two weeks away at a military school, two weeks of tortuous hell. My parents had sent me there under no conditions. I’m not a druggie or messed up in any kind of way, but my parents believe I’m not a grown man yet—whatever that means.
The train screeches to a stop and I start to stand, reaching up to grab my small duffel bag from the overhead compartment. The military school was located in France—my parents wanted me as far away as possible—so all I had to do was get a ticket and take the Eurostar over to London. My parents think the school would help “discipline me” because I am, and I quote, “head over heels for a 17-year-old, immature girl.” I’m only one year older, but my parents expect me to find a “true woman.” They forced me to send the letter to Stella. I wasn’t allowed to add any details about my whereabouts or why I was breaking up with her—I hope it hasn’t caused her too much pain. I hope she'll understand the situation. A nervous feeling fills my stomach, causing butterflies to wreak havoc. What if she found someone new? I dismiss this thought; we always knew we were soulmates.
I lug my duffle bag strap over my shoulder and step off the train. A damp smell and fluorescent lights fill the underground station. I locate the exit over the heads of hundreds of people—a perk of being 6’5—and start heading towards it.
I pull my hood over my head, hold my phone close to my chest, and my duffel bag tighter, as I walk up the exit stairs into the…sun? It’s always raining in London.
No chance it’s sunny.
But the unmistakable light warms my face. I close my eyes, tilt my head up, soaking in the delicious feeling. The butterflies from earlier start to calm, replaced by anticipation. I smile and take a deep breath. But someone aggressively pushes past me, bringing me back to reality, where the crowd weaves around me. I frown at the pusher, half-tempted to flip them off. British people. I roll my eyes and continue walking.
It’s only a 20-minute walk to Stella's boarding school, but the sun is already sinking as I arrive at her school dorm building. Now colors paint the sky: red, orange, and pink. My throat feels dry from the bitter-cold air, puffs of foggy air form from me huffing each breath. I rub my hands together before entering the school dorm building.
“Hello sir, how can I help you?” the receptionist asks. She greets me as the warm inside air envelopes me.
“Hi, I’m visiting Stella Everett,” I say, my voice breathless from the short walk. I wait patiently for the receptionist to give me the usual visitor sign-in sheet. It’s required due to the boarding school’s strict rules and 30-minute visits.
The receptionist frowns, “I’m sorry, there’s no Stella Everett enrolled here.”
What? How is she not here? She’s always in the same room, each year.
“What do you mean? She’s been going to this school for the past 3 years. She should be in room 204—.” I stop myself and take a breath, “I visited her in September,” I say.That September, I snuck out of my house, and bought a plane ticket with my allowance.
I look around anxiously. The moon has replaced the sun now, leaving an ominous feeling lingering in the air. I can’t believe her mother sent her to this school, they can’t even keep track of the students.
“Hmm, let me see,” the lady replies. She types on her keyboard for what feels like an eternity. My hands grip the counter edge, my gut telling me something’s wrong.
“It says here that Stella deregistered from this school…” her eyes scan her computer screen, “...2 days ago.” The receptionist looks up at me in boredom. “You can go look in her room, it should be unlocked,” she continues.
My blood starts to boil. Deregistered? Why would she leave the school? Her mother would never allow her to leave boarding school—it costs a fortune.
“Great. Thank you,” I bite out. My anger flares, even though it isn’t the receptionist's fault.
Where could she be?
My head feels hazy as I turn and practically jog toward the stairs. I push open the door and run up the stairs, going 3 steps at a time. My heart thumps with only one thought on my mind:
Stella.
I reach her dorm and twist the doorknob, revealing an empty room. I scan the little square room containing a desk, a small twin-sized bed, and a tiny wardrobe in the corner. The only lighting being the moon shining through the glass-paned window and the stars twinkling, shining bright. They remind me of how her green and brown eyes twinkle and shine when she looks at me.
There is nothing, no one but—
Wait.
My eyes zero in on the letter on her bed. My heart thumps rapidly in my ears as I move slowly toward her bed. The words on the envelope come into view, my name is written on the front.
Could it be from someone else?
I stare at the almost illegible handwriting and I know for a fact Stella wrote this. Hesitantly, I pick up the letter, the paper smooth against my rough hands. The room is silent, and the rest of the world disappears.
It’s just me and the letter. Her letter.
My shaky hands slowly tear open the envelope and pull out the letter. My temper from only 2 minutes ago is gone, and the butterflies fly away, leaving a bundle of knots in my stomach. My breaths come out shallow as I unfold the letter, the sharp paper edges scratching slightly at my skin. I first see the teardrop stains that are almost dry. My gut screams at me not to read it; the letter will ruin me, it chants. But my heart takes over—my worry and love for Stella are the only thing that matters.
My jaw tenses and throat thickens as I begin to read her letter.
12/6/22
Jacob,
Missing you is a strange ache. One that doesn’t fade but shifts, like the tides. It pulls me in quiet moments, in the pauses between words, in the spaces where you used to be.
Some days, it feels as though you’re slipping further from me, like sand between my fingers. But other times, you’re everywhere. Etched into the lines of my thoughts, in every laugh that echoes a little too long, in every shadow cast by the rain.
You were the one who stayed. After my dad left, I stopped expecting people to stay, and for my mother to actually care about my feelings. But then there was you, and for a moment, I believed in something lasting. I let myself believe I was worth holding on to.
Now you’re gone and I just don’t know how to let go of someone who made me feel seen when I thought I was invisible. You were the only one who looked past the surface and found me. But now, without you, I’m adrift, as though the parts of me that you brought to my life are slipping back into the dark.
Did you know a butterfly's life span is 2 weeks? Just long enough to flutter into someone’s life and leave it forever changed. Maybe it’s my turn to fly away, be free. I’m free now, isn’t that what you wanted?
Stella
Maggie Gray is a 16-year-old junior at Weston High School in Massachusetts. Though she sees her future in the medical field, she also enjoys writing in her free time. Whether sipping coffee in cafes in the early mornings or jotting down new story ideas late at night, Maggie dreams big and wishes she could try everything the world has to offer. Free Now is her first publication in a literary journal, and she hopes to continue sharing stories that connect with readers through emotion.