The Night He Forged My Signature, I Confirmed My Exchange Spot Chapter 11

The Night He Forged My Signature, I Confirmed My Exchange Spot Chapter 11

“No.”

The electronic board at the passport facility flashed my number.

My name appeared on the pickup list.

The clerk handed me the receipt. “Bethany, your visa should be ready in about five business days.”

Nathan stared at that receipt like it was the final stamp on my leaving.

Megan crouched by the curb, sobbing.

Nathan didn’t go to her.

He just looked at me, voice barely audible over the traffic. “The hoodie. Could you not throw it away?”

I glanced down at the receipt in my hand.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

A brief light crossed his face.

Then I tucked the receipt into my bag and walked toward the university shuttle.

The first snow in Ashton City fell while I was revising my portfolio in the studio.

My mentor set a cup of tea beside my tablet. “Bethany, the old sweater in your sketches-is it a memory of someone?”

I looked at the screen.

I’d drawn it as a faded blue, cuff empty except for a pale wash that looked like a stain that never quite came out.

I said, “A memory of a chapter that’s closed.”

She nodded. “Then it belongs to you now.”

I smiled and kept refining the line work.

My phone glowed from the corner of the desk.

A mutual friend had messaged.

[Nathan withdrew from Broadwin. He’s reapplying as a first-year student next fall. His family’s

furious.]

[Megan got academic probation. Her parents are fighting with the school.]

[He keeps going back to the old high school building, asking if anyone still has photos of your

countdown calendar.]

I read it and replied: [Got it.]

The friend followed up: [He asked me to tell you–don’t toss the hoodie. He’ll buy it back.]

I didn’t reply.

Snow fell quietly on the streetlights outside, clean as a blank page.

Two weeks later, a package arrived from Nathan.

Inside was his own hoodie.

On the inside cuff, a new line was written in marker.

[Bethany.]

A letter was tucked beside it.

[I used to see your name on my hoodie every time I did laundry. I pretended I didn’t notice, but I always saw it.

I thought you’d always be there, so I never really answered.

Now I’m writing yours. But I know it’s too late.

Bethany. I’m sorry.]

I read the letter, folded it back.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t tear it up.

I just placed the hoodie in the donation bin.

My classmate asked, “You sure? It looks well-kept.”

I touched the new stitching on the cuff.

The lines were neat, careful-like late sincerity.

I said, “I’m sure.”

The bin was collected just as the snow stopped for a moment.

I carried my sketchbook to class and passed a glass display case on the bridge.

The winter exchange student exhibition poster hung inside.

My name was printed at the bottom.

[Bethany Krause.]

No prefix. No one else’s name attached.

That night, Nathan made one last call.

I picked up.

His side was very quiet, like he was standing in an empty space.

“Bethany. Is it snowing in Ashton City?”

I looked out the window. “Yes.”

His voice dropped. “You used to say you wanted to see snow fall on our hoodies.”

I said, “I already have.”

His breath caught. “Was it beautiful?”

I thought for a moment. “It was.

The silence stretched.

Then Nathan said, “Good.”

I heard him smile, but his voice was hoarse. “Bethany. I hope you never have to be steady for anyone else again.”

I said, “Same to you.”

After I hung up, I blocked his number.

Not out of anger.

Just to give that chapter a clean close.

The next day, the exhibition opened. I stood in front of my piece.

No Nathan. No Megan.

Just an old hoodie hanging beside a donation bin, snow falling softly over the faded cuff mark.

My mentor asked for the title.

I fixed the label to the wall.

Snow on an Old Hoodie.

As the gallery lights came up, I heard someone say my name behind me.

I turned.

It was a new classmate, holding out a warm cup of tea.

“Bethany. Happy opening day.”

I took it.

The cup was warm in my hands.

Outside, snow started falling again.

This time, I didn’t think of anyone.