MY NEW ROOMMATE WAS THE PERFECT PREFECT—UNTIL I FOUND MY MISSING LETTERS UNDER HIS BED

PART 1 — THE BOY WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

On my first night at Hawthorne Hall, my new roommate gave me seven reasons to hate him.

He had typed them in twelve-point Times New Roman, printed them on expensive cream paper, and taped them to the wall between our beds.

ROOM 314 — SHARED EXPECTATIONS

I read the list twice.

Then I tore it down.

My roommate watched from behind a leather-bound history book.

Henry Ashford was exactly what people pictured when they heard the words perfect boarding school student. Tall, composed, dark hair neatly parted, tie centered, posture straight enough to make the wooden chair look lazy.

A silver prefect badge gleamed on his blazer.

“You missed one,” I said.

His gray eyes lifted from the page. “One what?”

“One rule.”

I crumpled the paper in my hand.

“Never room with an Irishman who has already been expelled once.”

“I read your file,” Henry replied.

That stopped me.

Most students had only heard the rumors. The new Irish transfer had punched a teacher. The new Irish transfer had thrown a chair through a window. The new Irish transfer had been dragged out of his old school by police.

None of those stories was completely true.

But none of them was completely false, either.

“I wasn’t expelled,” I said.

“You were asked to leave before the disciplinary hearing.”

“That’s the expensive-school version of being expelled.”

Henry closed his book. “I wasn’t judging you.”

“You printed rules before I unpacked my socks.”

“I like clarity.”

“I like breathing without permission.”

For the first time, something moved behind his perfect expression. Not anger. Almost amusement.

“Then we’ll both have to make sacrifices.”

I threw the crumpled rules into the wastebasket.

Henry looked at the paper, then at me.

“Lights out at eleven,” he said.

I laughed.

At eleven fifteen, I turned on every lamp in the room.

That was how our war began.

By midnight, Henry had closed the curtains I opened, rehung the jacket I dropped, and moved my bag away from the radiator three times.

At twelve thirty, he put on a sleeping mask.

At twelve thirty-one, I started eating salt-and-vinegar crisps.

He removed the mask.

“Do you always behave like this?”

“Only when someone gives me a list.”

“At your old school, did they never teach you consideration?”

The crisp stopped halfway to my mouth.

Henry must have seen the change in my face, because his voice softened.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Good night, Prefect.”

I switched off the lamp and rolled toward the wall.

Sleep did not come.

It rarely did in unfamiliar rooms.

Every creak of the old building sounded like a footstep outside the door. Every gust against the glass reminded me of the night I had left my old school with blood on my knuckles and my belongings stuffed into two black bags.

I pressed my palm against my chest and counted my breaths.

Four in.

Hold.

Six out.

A voice from the darkness said, “You’re counting too quickly.”

I froze.

Henry remained in his bed, facing the ceiling.

“What?”

“Four in. Hold for two. Eight out.”

My skin went cold.

“Who told you that?”

“It helps with panic.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“All right.”

“Answer me.”

Henry turned his head.

Moonlight cut across half his face.

“No one told me anything, Finn.”

I had not introduced myself that way.

To the school, I was Finnegan O’Connor. On every document, every schedule, and every disciplinary report, my full name appeared like an accusation.

Only people close to me called me Finn.

And one other person.

Someone I had never met.

Two years earlier, at the lowest point of my life, I had joined an anonymous online forum for students who were struggling at school. I used the name Sparrow17 and expected nothing except strangers telling me to try harder.

Instead, I received a private message from someone called NorthStar.

He did not ask why I was angry.

He asked what the anger was protecting.

For ten months, we sent each other letters through a private mailing service attached to the forum. Real paper. No return addresses. Only assigned post-office boxes and initials.

NorthStar knew I hated boiled carrots.

He knew my father called me Mouse when I was little.

He knew I kept an old tram ticket inside my wallet because it had belonged to my mother.

When I wanted to leave school, he wrote:

Staying does not make you weak. Leaving does not make you a failure. Just make sure the decision belongs to you.

Those words had kept me alive in ways I did not like admitting.

Then NorthStar disappeared.

No warning.

No final explanation.

Nothing.

“Did the dean tell you to call me Finn?” I asked.

Henry looked away.

“You should sleep.”

I stared at him until my eyes hurt.

The next morning, Henry was already dressed when I woke.

His bed was made with military precision. His shoes shone. His prefect badge caught the pale autumn light.

An envelope lay on my desk.

My name was written across the front.

Not Finnegan.

Finn.

I recognized the handwriting before I touched it.

The long downward stroke on the F.

The small break in the second n.

My stomach dropped so violently that I gripped the desk.

Henry stood by the window, hands behind his back.

“What is this?”

“You should read it.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Read it first.”

I tore open the envelope.

Inside was a letter I had written at sixteen.

The paper was creased along the same lines I remembered folding it. A faint tea stain marked the lower corner.

Dear NorthStar,

Mouse was what my mother called me before she died. I’ve never told anyone else because it sounds stupid now. I suppose everything sounds stupid when the person who made it matter is gone.

I stopped reading.

My hands began to shake.

This letter had vanished with NorthStar.

No one else should have possessed it.

I looked at Henry.

He had gone pale, but his voice remained steady.

“You can hate me after you read the rest.”

I crossed the room and shoved the letter against his chest.

“Are you him?”

Henry did not move.

“Are you NorthStar?”

“No.”

“You have his letter.”

“I know.”

“You knew how I breathe when I panic.”

“I noticed.”

“You called me Finn.”

“That is what people call you.”

“Not here.”

His jaw tightened.

I stepped closer.

“Who are you?”

Henry looked at the letter between us, but he did not answer.

I grabbed the front of his blazer.

In my old school, that would have been enough.

A fist would have followed. Someone would have shouted. A teacher would have pulled me away and written another report about my temper.

Henry did not push me.

He simply said, “If you hit me, they’ll send you home.”

The truth in his voice made me release him.

He smoothed his blazer, but his hands were no longer steady.

“I’m late for assembly.”

“You’re not leaving.”

“I have duties.”

“You stole my letter.”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“Then tell me where it came from.”

His eyes met mine.

“I can’t.”

I laughed once, without humor.

“Of course you can’t.”

I blocked the door.

Henry’s perfect calm finally cracked.

“Finn, please.”

That word—please—did more than anger would have.

It sounded frightened.

Not frightened of me.

Frightened for me.

I stepped aside.

Henry opened the door, then hesitated.

“I never meant for you to see that letter yet.”

“Yet?”

He left before I could stop him.

By breakfast, everyone knew I had argued with the head prefect.

By lunch, the story had become that I had threatened him with a desk lamp.

By afternoon, Dean Whitaker summoned me to his office.

The dean was a broad man with kind eyes and the exhausted voice of someone who had spent thirty years listening to rich parents explain why rules should not apply to their children.

“Three days,” he said.

“What about them?”

“You have been here for three days.”

“Technically, two and a half.”

He rubbed his forehead.

“Mr. Ashford requested you as his roommate.”

That surprised me.

“I thought rooms were assigned.”

“Usually.”

“Why would Henry request me?”

“He said he believed he could help you adjust.”

“Did he say how he knew me?”

The dean’s expression changed.

“You had never met before arriving here.”

It was not a question.

“That’s what I’m trying to work out.”

Dean Whitaker leaned back.

“Mr. O’Connor, Hawthorne Hall is your final opportunity. Your father made that clear. One serious incident, and your enrollment will end.”

“My father makes everything sound like a threat.”

“Henry Ashford has put his own reputation behind you.”

“I didn’t ask him to.”

“Perhaps you should ask why he did.”

I intended to.

Unfortunately, Henry had an answer prepared for everything except the truth.

He knew I preferred coffee with too much milk.

He knew I could not sleep if the wardrobe door was open.

He knew I rubbed the scar on my thumb whenever I lied.

Every time I confronted him, he gave me another polished denial.

“I read your admissions file.”

“The school kitchen serves the same breakfast every Monday.”

“You mentioned that in your sleep.”

“You are not as mysterious as you think.”

But he made mistakes.

One evening, while tutoring me in calculus, he pushed a plate of biscuits across the desk.

“No raisins,” he said. “You hate finding them unexpectedly.”

I stared at him.

Henry closed his eyes.

“Admissions file?” I asked.

He removed the plate. “Forget I said that.”

Another night, he found me sitting on the floor outside the common room after I received an email from my father.

I had not opened it.

I already knew what it would say.

Do not embarrass me again.

Do not waste this chance.

Do not become your mother.

Henry sat beside me, leaving exactly one floorboard between us.

“What happened at your old school?” he asked.

“You read my file.”

“I read the official account.”

“And?”

“I want yours.”

No one had ever asked for my version.

Even my father had decided what happened before I returned home.

A teacher had cornered one of the younger students in a storage room. He had grabbed the boy’s arm hard enough to leave marks. I saw it. I told him to stop.

He laughed.

I pushed him.

He pushed back.

The window broke when he fell against it.

The school protected him because his brother chaired the board.

I became the violent student with a history of anger.

“I didn’t punch him,” I told Henry.

“I know.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know you don’t start fights without a reason.”

“You’ve known me for twelve days.”

Henry looked at his hands.

“Sometimes twelve days is enough.”

The corridor was empty.

From the chapel below us came the faint sound of someone practicing piano.

“Why did you request me as your roommate?” I asked.

He did not deny it.

Instead, he said, “Because everyone else had already decided who you were.”

“And you hadn’t?”

“I had.”

His honesty should have angered me.

It did not.

“What did you decide?”

Henry looked at me with an expression I could not name.

“That you deserved one person who stayed.”

My chest tightened.

NorthStar had once written almost the same thing.

You do not need everyone to understand you. You only need one person willing to stay long enough to try.

“Stop doing that,” I whispered.

“Doing what?”

“Talking like him.”

Henry stood too quickly.

“I have evening rounds.”

He left me on the floor with my father’s unread email glowing on the screen.

After that night, something shifted between us.

We still argued.

Henry still confiscated my electric kettle because it violated fire regulations.

I still replaced his classical alarm with a recording of bagpipes.

But the sharpness disappeared.

He taught me how to survive Hawthorne Hall without letting it change me.

I taught him how to leave campus without the security cameras catching him.

The first time we escaped, I took him to a twenty-four-hour diner six miles from school.

Henry stared at the laminated menu as if it were a legal contract.

“You’ve never had a milkshake?” I asked.

“My father considers excessive sugar a failure of discipline.”

“Your father sounds delightful.”

“He has strong expectations.”

“That’s rich-person language for terrifying.”

Henry’s mouth curved.

It was not the careful smile he used at assemblies.

It was crooked and sudden and young.

For the first time, he did not look like the Ashford heir or Hawthorne Hall’s head prefect.

He looked like an eighteen-year-old boy sitting across from me at two in the morning.

I wanted to make him smile again.

That realization frightened me more than the letters.

“What happens if you disappoint him?” I asked.

Henry turned the paper wrapper around his straw.

“He reminds me what happened to my brother.”

I went still.

“You have a brother?”

“Had.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Everyone is.”

He stared through the window at the empty parking lot.

“My father believes grief should make a person more obedient. My brother died, so I’m expected to live perfectly enough for both of us.”

“What was his name?”

Henry’s fingers tightened around the straw wrapper.

“Julian.”

Something about the name felt familiar.

Not like remembering a person.

Like hearing music from another room.

“Were you close?”

“We were twins.”

I studied his face.

The same face, repeated.

One lost.

One sitting in front of me.

“How did he die?”

Henry’s expression closed.

“We should return before morning check.”

“Henry—”

“Please, Finn.”

Again, that frightened please.

I let the question go.

But the name followed me back to school.

Julian.

I dreamed of three boys standing beside a lake.

One of them was laughing.

One was angry.

The third was me.

I woke with mud between my imaginary toes and smoke in my lungs.

Henry was beside my bed.

“Finn.”

I sat up so quickly our foreheads nearly collided.

“What are you doing?”

“You were shouting.”

“What did I say?”

His face had lost all color.

“You said Julian’s name.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“I’ve never met him.”

Henry stepped back.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you afraid?”

“I’m not afraid.”

I climbed out of bed.

Henry moved toward the door, but I caught his wrist.

He flinched.

Not from pain.

From contact.

The movement exposed the thin leather cord around his neck. A small brass compass hung from it.

I knew that compass.

A flash split through my mind.

Wet wooden boards.

A boy pressing the compass into my palm.

Another boy shouting for help.

Then nothing.

I released Henry.

“Where did you get that?”

His hand closed over the compass.

“It belonged to Julian.”

“I’ve seen it before.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

Henry backed away.

“Because Julian never wore it after he was ten.”

“How old was he when he died?”

“Sixteen.”

The same age I had been when NorthStar vanished.

Henry saw the calculation in my face.

“No,” he said.

“You told me you weren’t NorthStar.”

“I’m not.”

“Was Julian?”

Henry said nothing.

That was answer enough.

I felt the room narrow around us.

“All this time…”

“Finn, listen to me.”

“He wrote the letters.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“He knew me.”

Henry reached for me.

I stepped away.

“Don’t.”

His hand fell.

“Tell me the truth.”

“I can’t tell you all of it.”

“Then tell me one thing. Did your brother write to me?”

Henry stared at the floor.

“Yes.”

The word broke something open inside me.

Relief came first.

NorthStar had been real.

Then grief.

He had been real, and he was dead.

“You let me think he abandoned me.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

Henry’s voice cracked.

“From the part that would hurt more.”

I shoved past him and left the room.

For two days, I avoided him.

I slept in an empty music practice room and skipped meals when I knew he was supervising the dining hall.

Henry sent no messages.

He did not report me for breaking curfew.

He simply waited.

On the third night, I returned to Room 314 while he was at prefect council.

I wanted clothes.

That was what I told myself.

I was not searching for answers.

But when I pulled my suitcase from beneath my bed, I noticed a corner of blue paper beneath Henry’s.

The paper matched the envelopes NorthStar had used.

I knelt.

Under Henry’s bed sat a locked wooden box.

The key was taped beneath the frame.

Perfect Henry.

Even his secrets were organized.

I opened the box.

Inside were every letter I had ever sent to NorthStar.

Dozens of them.

Some tear-stained.

Some covered in angry handwriting.

Some I barely remembered writing.

They were arranged by date.

Beneath them were NorthStar’s replies.

I unfolded the most recent one.

The handwriting changed halfway through.

The first page was warm and untidy, the letters leaning toward one another.

The second was controlled and elegant.

Henry’s handwriting.

My knees weakened.

He had not merely kept Julian’s letters.

He had answered me.

At the bottom of the box lay one unopened envelope.

Across the front, in Julian’s handwriting, were the words:

Only give this to Finn when he begins to love you.

My breath stopped.

The seal broke beneath my thumb.

A photograph slid into my lap.

Three boys stood on a wooden dock beside a lake.

Two were identical.

One wore a brass compass.

The third boy had red hair, scraped knees, and my mother’s old tram ticket tied around his wrist like a bracelet.

It was me.

On the back, someone had written:

Finn, Henry, and Julian — Maine, Summer 2016. Three days before the fire.

I had no memory of the photograph.

No memory of Maine.

No memory of the twins.

Behind me, the door opened.

Henry stood in the doorway.

He saw the photograph in my hand.

Then he whispered the words that made the room disappear beneath me.

“You were never supposed to remember that night.”

PART 2 — THE LETTER WRITTEN BY TWO BOYS

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

Henry remained in the doorway, still wearing his prefect blazer. His expression had gone beyond fear.

He looked defeated.

I held up the photograph.

“What fire?”

He closed the door behind him.

“Finn—”

“What happened in Maine?”

“You need to sit down.”

“Stop telling me what I need.”

My voice struck the walls.

Henry flinched, but I could not soften it.

I had spent years believing parts of me were broken for no reason. I hated lakes without knowing why. The smell of burning wood made me nauseated. I sometimes woke with the feeling of cold hands dragging me through water.

And Henry had known.

“Tell me,” I said.

He removed his prefect badge and placed it on the desk.

It was such a small movement, but it felt like he was taking off armor.

“Our family owned a summer house on Blackwater Lake in Maine,” he began. “Your mother worked there for one summer.”

“My mother was a nurse.”

“She was hired to care for our grandmother after surgery. She brought you because your father was working overseas.”

I looked at the photograph again.

The boy who was me stood between the twins, grinning as if nothing bad had ever happened to him.

“You were eight,” Henry continued. “Julian and I were nine. You followed us everywhere.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You called us Prince One and Prince Two because you couldn’t tell us apart.”

“Which one were you?”

“Prince Two.”

Despite everything, the answer sounded painfully like Henry.

“Julian was louder,” he said. “Braver. He always went first. I was the one who checked whether we were allowed.”

“Of course you were.”

A broken smile touched his face, then vanished.

“There was an old boathouse at the edge of the property. My father had been warned that the wiring was unsafe, but repairs would have interfered with a political fundraiser.”

The next part seemed difficult for him to say.

“We went there during a storm. Julian wanted to show you a rowboat. Lightning struck nearby, and something inside the wall caught fire.”

The dream returned.

Smoke.

Water.

Someone screaming my name.

“You were trapped on the dock,” Henry said. “A burning beam fell between us. Julian reached you first.”

I looked at the brass compass around Henry’s neck.

“He gave me that.”

“Yes. You were terrified, so he put it in your hand and told you the needle would always point you home.”

My vision blurred.

“What did you do?”

Henry swallowed.

“I ran for help.”

The shame in his voice was unmistakable.

“You were nine.”

“I left you there.”

“You got help.”

“Julian stayed. I ran.”

“Henry—”

“The dock collapsed before the adults arrived. You hit your head and fell into the lake. Julian went after you.”

I saw it then.

Not a complete memory.

Only pieces.

A hand around my wrist.

Dark hair floating in black water.

A boy’s voice telling me not to close my eyes.

“Did Julian save me?”

“Yes.”

Henry looked toward the window.

“He pulled you to the shore. Your heart had stopped by the time your mother reached you. She brought you back.”

I pressed my fingers against my mouth.

“What happened after?”

“You were hospitalized with a concussion and smoke inhalation. When you woke, you couldn’t remember the summer.”

“My mother never told me.”

“My father convinced her not to.”

“Convinced?”

Henry’s eyes hardened.

“He paid the medical bills and threatened to blame her for failing to supervise us. He said the scandal would destroy her career and that no one would believe an immigrant nurse over the Ashford family.”

Anger rose so fast I nearly choked on it.

“She took me back to Ireland.”

“The day you were released.”

“And you never saw me again.”

“Julian tried to find you for years.”

I looked at the box of letters.

“How did he?”

“When we were sixteen, he saw a post on the student forum. You mentioned the tram ticket.”

My mother’s ticket.

The one detail no stranger could have recognized.

“He knew it was you,” Henry said. “He created the NorthStar account.”

“Why didn’t he tell me who he was?”

“He was afraid the truth would bring back the memory too suddenly. He thought you might remember on your own if he wrote about small things.”

“That’s why he knew Mouse.”

“You told us that summer.”

“And the carrots?”

“You threw boiled carrots into the lake and told our cook the ducks needed them more.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

It sounded wrong in the middle of so much pain.

Yet for one second, I could almost see three boys crouched beside the water, feeding orange pieces to ducks while an angry cook shouted from the veranda.

The memory vanished as quickly as it came.

“What happened to Julian?”

Henry sat on the edge of his bed.

“He had a heart condition. We knew about it, but it had never stopped him from doing anything. One evening, he collapsed during rowing practice.”

I lowered myself into the desk chair.

“He died before the ambulance arrived.”

The room went silent.

I thought of every NorthStar letter.

Every careless joke.

Every sentence that had made me feel understood.

“How many letters did you write?”

Henry looked at the box.

“Eleven.”

“After he died?”

“The first letter arrived two days after the funeral.”

His voice grew quieter.

“You wrote that someone at school had found your notebook and read parts of it aloud. You said you were finished trusting people. You said NorthStar was the only person who had never made you regret telling the truth.”

I remembered that letter.

I had written it in the school library while hiding between shelves.

“I could not send you another loss,” Henry said. “Not then.”

“So you pretended to be him.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Four months.”

My anger returned.

“You read everything I wrote to your brother.”

“I had always read the letters.”

I stared at him.

“Julian showed you?”

“He read parts aloud. At first because he thought you were funny. Then because he worried about you.”

“And you?”

Henry’s cheeks colored.

“I waited for each letter.”

Something shifted inside my chest.

He continued before I could speak.

“Julian said I cared more about your replies than he did. He teased me about it constantly. That’s why he wrote the note on the envelope.”

I looked down at Julian’s instruction.

Only give this to Finn when he begins to love you.

“You kept writing because Julian asked you to?”

“No.”

The answer came immediately.

Henry stood.

“At first, I wrote because I thought you needed NorthStar. But after the second letter, I was not writing as Julian anymore. I was writing what I wanted to say.”

“While signing his name.”

“I know.”

“You lied to me.”

“Yes.”

“You made me trust someone who didn’t exist.”

“He existed.”

“Which one of you?”

Henry had no answer.

I picked up the unopened letter.

There was still a folded page inside the envelope.

With shaking hands, I opened it.

Julian’s handwriting covered both sides.

Finn,

If Henry gives you this, one of two impossible things has happened. Either he has finally stopped obeying every rule ever written, or you have managed to fall in love with him despite his personality.

I hope it is both.

A laugh broke through my tears.

Henry looked away.

I continued reading.

You knew us before you knew loss could erase entire summers. Henry was your shadow then, although he will insist it was the other way around. When the boathouse burned, I pulled you from the water, but Henry was the one who brought help. Never let him rewrite that story into one where he abandoned us.

Henry’s breathing changed.

He has been punishing himself since we were children. He thinks surviving means owing the world perfection.

You once told him the compass was useless because people are not places. You said home was whoever came looking when you disappeared.

Henry came looking.

He searched for you with me. He read every letter over my shoulder. He remembered every detail you thought no one noticed.

If I am gone when you read this, tell him something for me: loving someone is not a duty. It is not a debt. He does not have to finish my life.

And Finn, if you love him, make him believe you chose the brother who stayed—not because the other one died, but because Henry finally let himself be seen.

I lowered the letter.

Henry’s face had crumpled.

It was the first time I had seen him cry.

Not the silent, dignified tears expected at memorial services.

He covered his mouth and turned away as if even grief had to be hidden from me.

I wanted to go to him.

Instead, I remained in the chair.

Because love did not erase what he had done.

“You should have told me,” I said.

“I know.”

“When I arrived.”

“Yes.”

“When you handed me the first letter.”

“Yes.”

“Any of those nights when I asked you directly.”

Henry wiped his face.

“I tried.”

“No. You prepared.”

His eyes met mine.

There was no defense in them now.

“You prepared the truth like one of your prefect speeches. You decided which pieces I could handle. That isn’t the same as trusting me.”

“No.”

“You controlled me exactly the way your father controls you.”

The words wounded him.

I saw it.

But he nodded.

“You’re right.”

That made it worse.

I wanted him to argue so I could remain angry.

Instead, he walked to the wall where his original rules had hung and removed the last strip of tape.

“I’ll speak to Dean Whitaker in the morning,” he said. “I’ll request another room for you.”

“You think that fixes this?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because you deserve the choice.”

Choice.

NorthStar’s favorite word.

I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.

“Stop speaking like him.”

Henry looked at me.

“I wrote that line.”

The anger vanished beneath my feet.

“What?”

“The letter about leaving school. The one that said the decision had to belong to you.”

I remembered every word.

Staying does not make you weak.

Leaving does not make you a failure.

Just make sure the decision belongs to you.

“That was you?”

“Yes.”

The room seemed to separate into before and after.

The letter that saved me had not come from Julian.

It had come from Henry.

I hated that the knowledge mattered.

I hated that part of me had always known.

“I need to leave,” I whispered.

Henry stepped aside.

He did not ask me to stay.

For the first time, he did not decide what was best for me.

I spent that night walking through the rain.

By morning, I had developed a fever and missed two exams.

By afternoon, Dean Whitaker informed me that Henry had resigned as head prefect.

“He took responsibility for accessing confidential admissions information,” the dean said.

“Did he?”

“He admitted requesting your room assignment under false pretenses.”

“What happens now?”

“He may lose his scholarship recommendation and student leadership record.”

Henry did not need a scholarship.

But his perfect record was the currency his father valued most.

“Where is he?”

The dean hesitated.

“His father arrived an hour ago.”

I found them in the Ashford Hall conference room.

Henry’s father stood beside the fireplace, dressed in a charcoal suit.

Henry faced him with his hands at his sides.

“You will withdraw the resignation,” his father said.

“No.”

“You will end this ridiculous attachment to the O’Connor boy.”

“No.”

I stopped outside the half-open door.

“You have already sacrificed enough because of that family,” his father continued. “Your brother risked his life for him. Your mother lost Julian. I protected all of you from scandal.”

“You protected yourself,” Henry said.

I had never heard his voice like that.

No careful politeness.

No fear hidden beneath obedience.

“The boathouse was unsafe because you ignored the inspection report,” he continued. “Finn nearly died because your fundraiser mattered more than repairs. His mother stayed silent because you threatened her.”

“You know nothing about the pressures I faced.”

“I know exactly what pressure feels like.”

His father lowered his voice.

“If this becomes public, Hawthorne Hall will not protect him. His disciplinary history will destroy his credibility.”

Henry placed a folder on the table.

“I copied the inspection report.”

His father went still.

“I also copied the payment records and the letter you made Finn’s mother sign.”

“You would destroy this family?”

“No,” Henry said. “I’m refusing to let you destroy his again.”

I pushed open the door.

Both of them turned.

Henry’s expression changed when he saw me.

“Finn.”

His father looked me over with open contempt.

I should have felt small.

Instead, I remembered a nine-year-old boy running through smoke to bring help.

“You kept the tram ticket,” I said to Henry.

Confusion crossed his face.

“What?”

“In the photograph. I had it tied around my wrist.”

“You wore it every day.”

A memory opened.

Not violently this time.

Softly.

Two boys sat with me beneath a table during a summer storm. Julian was telling a ridiculous ghost story. Henry was holding my wrist, studying the tram ticket.

I had asked which twin would come looking if I got lost.

Julian pointed at Henry.

He would. He always notices when someone is missing.

The memory left me shaking.

Henry moved forward but stopped before touching me.

He waited.

That mattered.

“I remember the storm,” I said.

His father’s face tightened.

Henry looked frightened.

“Not everything,” I continued. “But enough.”

“You should rest.”

“Still giving orders?”

“Sorry.”

I almost smiled.

Almost.

His father reached for the folder.

I placed my hand over it first.

“You don’t get to bury this again.”

“This is a private family matter.”

“No. It became my matter when my mother was threatened into silence.”

He studied me as if calculating how easily I could be removed.

Henry stepped beside me.

Not in front.

Beside.

His father saw it too.

“You will regret this,” he told Henry.

“Probably,” Henry said. “But the decision belongs to me.”

His father left without another word.

For the next three weeks, Henry and I barely spoke.

The school opened an investigation into the room assignment. Lawyers contacted my father. My mother’s old documents were recovered from storage in Dublin.

Henry moved into a single room on the prefect floor, although he was no longer a prefect.

I remained in Room 314.

Every morning, I woke expecting to hear him complain about my shoes.

Every night, I looked at the empty bed.

Anger was easier when he was there.

Missing him was humiliating.

Then, one evening, I found an envelope beneath my door.

It contained no old secrets.

Only one page in Henry’s handwriting.

Finn,

I have spent most of my life confusing love with responsibility.

I watched my father turn grief into rules. I watched myself become someone who believed every disaster could be prevented if I behaved perfectly enough.

When Julian died, I answered your letters because I thought I was continuing his work.

That was a lie I told myself.

I answered because I had already fallen in love with the boy who wrote them.

I loved the way you became sarcastic whenever you were frightened. I loved that you pretended not to care and then remembered every detail about everyone else. I loved that you were angry at injustice even when anger cost you everything.

When you arrived at Hawthorne Hall, I requested you as my roommate because I wanted to protect you.

That was another lie.

I wanted to meet you.

I wanted you near me.

I wanted the chance to become someone you might choose.

But I was afraid the truth would make you leave, so I controlled the way you learned it. I became exactly what I promised I would protect you from.

I am sorry.

You owe me no forgiveness.

You owe me no reply.

This letter belongs to you. What happens next does too.

There was no signature.

He did not sign it NorthStar.

He did not sign it Henry.

He left the ending blank.

I found him at the lake behind the chapel.

He sat on the old stone wall, staring at the dark water.

I stopped several feet away.

“You forgot to sign your letter.”

Henry turned.

“I wasn’t sure which name you wanted.”

“Your own would be a start.”

He stood.

For once, his uniform was untidy. His tie hung loose, and the wind had ruined his hair.

He looked imperfect.

He looked beautiful.

“I don’t forgive you yet,” I said.

“I understand.”

“I may be angry for a long time.”

“You should be.”

“And you are never allowed to decide what truths I can handle.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I prepared a longer argument, but I’m trying not to control the conversation.”

I laughed.

The sound startled both of us.

Henry smiled carefully.

I stepped closer.

“Did you love me before I arrived?”

“Yes.”

“Did Julian know?”

“He knew before I did.”

“Did you request me as your roommate because you thought I might love you back?”

Henry looked toward the lake.

“I hoped you might.”

“And the rules?”

“I panicked.”

“You responded to panic by making a list?”

“I had never shared a room with someone I had been secretly in love with for two years.”

“That should have been rule number eight.”

Henry’s smile widened.

I reached into my pocket and removed the brass compass.

He had left it inside the letter box.

I placed it in his palm.

“Julian gave this to me.”

“Yes.”

“But you came looking.”

Henry closed his fingers around it.

“Always.”

I kissed him before I could lose my nerve.

For half a second, he did not move.

Then his hand rose toward my face and stopped.

Even now, he was waiting for permission.

I leaned closer.

His fingers touched my cheek.

The kiss was not perfect.

Our noses collided. I laughed against his mouth. Henry whispered an apology, which made me kiss him again just to stop him speaking.

When we finally separated, his forehead rested against mine.

“Does this mean you’re coming back to Room 314?” I asked.

“I thought you wanted another roommate.”

“I did.”

“And now?”

“I still do.”

His face fell.

I pulled a folded piece of cream paper from my coat.

“I made a list.”

Henry opened it.

ROOM 314 — NEW SHARED EXPECTATIONS

Henry read the final rule twice.

Then he looked at me.

“I can agree to that.”

“Good.”

“There is one problem.”

“What?”

“You used the wrong font.”

I shoved him toward the lake.

He caught my wrist and pulled me with him.

We did not fall.

We stood on the edge, laughing, holding each other between the dark water and the lights of Hawthorne Hall.

For years, I had believed NorthStar was one person.

The dead boy who found me.

The living boy who stayed.

But perhaps NorthStar had never been a person at all.

Perhaps it was simply the name I gave to the light that reached me when I thought I had been forgotten.

Julian had started the letters.

Henry had continued them.

And for the first time in my life, I was not waiting for someone else to tell me where home was.

I chose it.

I chose the boy holding my hand.

And this time, I remembered him.

MY NEW ROOMMATE WAS THE PERFECT PREFECT—UNTIL I FO...