Faithwood liked to pretend it wasn’t in the North at all. The prospectus photos cropped out the hills and the estate across the road, focused instead on brickwork and Latin mottos. But you could hear it in the rain—heavier somehow—and in the way everyone said nowt without realising. You could smell it on Friday nights when the wind carried chip fat up from town.

Nicola Bell didn’t look like she belonged anywhere with bus shelters or kebab shops. She crossed the quad like it was hers by inheritance, blazer folded just so, hair behaving despite the drizzle. Some people were born knowing where to put their hands. Nicola was one of them.

Charlie nudged me. “There she is. Old Nickie.”

Her boyfriend was waiting by the bike sheds—Tom Hargreaves, rugby captain, shoulders like he’d been assembled wrong. They didn’t kiss. They never did. Just stood close enough to imply things. Nicola passed him something with the same casual grace she used to pass teachers their own pens back. If anyone asked, it would be revision notes. Or a MiniDisc. Or absolutely none of their business.

They were the coolest couple in school, which mostly meant they never looked panicked.

I looked away first. Old habit.

“Two months,” I said. “Then we’re gone.”

Julia nodded, eyes fixed on the ground. She still went quiet around Nicola, like her body remembered before her brain did. They’d shared a dorm once, years ago, when Nicola had decided Julia was an acceptable target. Nothing dramatic. Just laughs that stopped when Julia walked in. Just names said softly enough that teachers never heard them.

Nicola had grown out of it. Julia hadn’t.

“Manchester first,” Julia said. “Or Leeds. Somewhere with trains that actually go places.”

She had her notebook tucked under her arm—business plans, numbers, ideas scribbled in biro. Everyone else at Faithwood talked about universities like they were lifeboats. Julia talked about leaving like it was a skill.

Inside, the common room telly muttered on about nothing. Someone had taped The Big Breakfast over an old Oasis gig. The sofas smelled faintly of damp wool and cheap deodorant. Nicola was already installed with the prefects, laughing at something unfunny. Tom hovered nearby, orbiting.

“She still looks through me,” Julia said. “Like I’m static.”

Nicola glanced our way then, expression smooth as glass. No apology. No recognition. She didn’t need to remember. That was the privilege.

The rumours had been circling for weeks—never landing, just passing overhead. Tom losing his temper on the pitch. Nicola missing chapel twice. Someone spotted in town after lights-out, collar up, head down. Faithwood loved rumours. They meant you didn’t have to do anything.

The headmaster finally made his speech on a Tuesday morning, voice full of disappointment and values. No names. No accusations. Just that tight, careful pause that said we know.

Afterwards, Tom went straight to the gym. Nicola went to the toilets and stayed there longer than necessary. When she came out, she was smiling too hard, like someone daring you to question it.

Later, Julia and I were hiding out in the art room, where no one important ever came. Through the window, we saw Nicola crossing the lawn alone. She stopped, bent forward, hands on her knees. For a second she looked wrecked. Young. Like all of us, really.

Julia inhaled sharply, then shut her mouth.

Sympathy felt like betrayal. But so did pretending we hadn’t seen it.

That night, Julia spread her notebook out between us. Rent estimates. Stock costs. A future that didn’t involve pretending to be fine. Outside, the bells rang on schedule, confident as ever.