Caps, gowns, and the weird calm after
Molly walked across a stage in a gown that pinched at the shoulders, and for about forty-five seconds the whole chaotic decade of essays and all-nighters felt tidy.
Alex sat three rows behind Molly's parents with a bouquet that looked like it had lost a fight with the subway. He kept checking the program like the order of names might rearrange itself. When they called her, he stood up too early and sat down too late, which felt exactly right.
The photos are mostly of us squinting into sun and laughing at nothing in particular. Someone's aunt kept asking what we were "going to do next," as if next were a single clean noun. We had answers that sounded confident and were, privately, still drafts.
What I remember most is the quiet after — still in the gown, shoes off in the grass, realizing the calendar that had organized our lives for four years was suddenly blank. Not scary blank. Just open. Alex said something about celebrating with dumplings instead of champagne, and that felt more like us than any rooftop bar.
We kept the tassels in a kitchen drawer for months. Not as trophies exactly — more like proof that we finished something together, even when only one of us wore the cap.