Day 112

                                    

                                          
Loretta's voice rang out, cutting through the dull hum of the nurses' station. "Trey," she called, her face bright with a rare smile. She held up a large manila envelope, its edges crisp, the bold print of his name staring back at him. "Special delivery."
Trey blinked, momentarily disoriented. The last few days had been a whirlwind of chaos and confusion—the fight in the hallway, the encounter with Penny, Wren's silence. He had almost completely forgotten about the exam, the anticipation that had once consumed him now felt distant, like something belonging to a different version of himself.
He approached the counter slowly, eyes fixed on the envelope as if it might explode. "Oh... thanks," he muttered, taking it from her. He held it limply, like a burden he wasn't sure he could carry.
Loretta raised an eyebrow, sensing his hesitation. "You gonna open it?" she asked, her voice soft, coaxing.
He glanced down at the envelope in his hand, his name almost mocking him. His future, maybe. Or maybe nothing had changed. The thought made him feel even more tired. "Maybe later," he shrugged, his voice hollow.
Before he could turn to leave, Loretta reached out, her fingers lightly brushing his hand. "Hey," she said, her tone lowering, more intimate now. "You can't save somebody who don't wanna be saved."
Her words struck something deep inside him, like an old wound being prodded. Trey's mind flashed back to Penny—her glassy eyes, the smell of whiskey and desperation clinging to her like a second skin. And then Wren, the way she'd pulled away. He wasn't sure who Loretta was talking about anymore. Penny? Wren? Himself?
He managed a small, forced smile, nodding without conviction.
Back in his room, Trey lay flat on his back, the ceiling a blur above him. The envelope sat beside him, its pristine edges a sharp contrast to the mess in his head. He stared at it, willing himself to open it, but his hands wouldn't move. The excitement, the hope—it was all gone. It didn't feel like his anymore. Not without Wren.
The weight of her absence pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe. What could he even say to her? Would she believe him if he told her the truth? Did it even matter anymore?
The envelope stayed unopened, its presence a silent reminder that no matter how far he tried to run from his past, it always caught up to him.
—
Wren stared blankly at the wall. Her book, forgotten, rested open in her lap, though the words on the pages seemed to blur together, irrelevant. Her thoughts kept circling back to that moment—Trey leaving Penny's room. 
Loretta entered quietly, handing her the usual dose of medication in a little paper cup. "Did Trey pass his GED?" Loretta asked, her voice casual as she watched Wren absently take the pills.
"What?" Wren blinked, pulled from her swirling thoughts.
"His GED results came in this morning," Loretta continued. "He didn't tell you?"
Wren sat up a little, her heart skipping a beat. He hadn't mentioned it. She felt a rush of emotions—confusion, guilt, something she couldn't quite pin down. 
"Trey Amsel!" Wren's voice echoed as she pushed her way into his room, not bothering to knock. The door swung wide open, and she entered with the same determined energy. 
Trey jolted up in his bed, startled to see her so suddenly. "Wren?"
"Well?" She crossed her arms, her face expectant. "Your results!"
He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly avoiding her gaze as he picked up the unopened envelope from his bedside. "Uh... I haven't opened it yet," he admitted, holding it loosely in his hands.
"Why not? You've been waiting for this for weeks." She glanced pointedly at the envelope, her voice more incredulous than angry.
A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I didn't want to open it without you," he said, his voice soft but honest.
Wren's expression softened. In that moment, she realized how much her own stubbornness had built a wall between them. Whatever she thought she felt about the Penny situation, it paled in comparison to the friendship they shared. This mattered—he mattered. She wasn't about to let her feelings get in the way of that.
"Are you gonna open it?" she asked, her tone now gentler, more forgiving.
He exhaled a deep breath, the tension releasing from his shoulders as he handed her the envelope. "I can't. You do it."
She took the envelope from him, her fingers carefully peeling open the seal. Inside was a stiff cardboard folder, formal and official. She opened it slowly, her eyes scanning the words.
"This is to certify that Richard Sean Amsel III has demonstrated equivalent competencies to high school education as certified by the State Education Department!" Her voice brightened with excitement, and she looked up at him, grinning from ear to ear.
Trey's eyes widened in disbelief. She passed him the folder, and he took it carefully, like he was afraid it might dissolve in his hands. His fingers traced over the raised lettering, the heavy paper, his name printed boldly across the center. He laughed, softly at first, then louder, letting out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. This wasn't just a piece of paper—it was validation. A sign that despite everything—despite the darkness, the mistakes—he'd done something right.
He dropped to his knees in front of Wren and pulled her into a tight, desperate hug, his emotions pouring out. "I couldn't have done this without you," he murmured, his voice thick with gratitude.
For a moment, Wren was still, surprised by the intensity of the embrace. But then she melted into it, wrapping her arms around him, holding him close. "You earned this, Trey," she whispered into his shoulder, her words filled with warmth. "You did this."
They held each other for a moment, the weight of the past few weeks falling away, leaving something fragile but full of promise. When they finally pulled apart, their faces mirrored each other—shy smiles, soft eyes, the kind of silence that speaks louder than words.
"Let's go celebrate," Wren said, breaking the moment with a playful nudge. "Wanna see if Delores will give us an extra pudding cup?"
Trey laughed, standing up. "Extra pudding cups sound good."
She grinned, her hands gripping the wheels of her chair beside him as they made their way down the hallway together. Wren glanced up at him, her smile turning mischievous.
"I knew your middle name started with an 'S,'" she teased.
Trey groaned, his cheeks flushing. "Yeah, I told you, we're all crazy." But there was a lightness in his voice that hadn't been there in days—a lightness they both felt.
And maybe, just maybe, they were both ready for whatever came next.