One-Way Ticket Out of the Alpha’s Pack Chapter 07

One-Way Ticket Out of the Alpha’s Pack Chapter 07

After that day, my parents stop coming to school to look for me.

They simply transfer the rest of my living expenses into my bank account each month.

There are no demands attached, just a simple note with each transfer.

I continue working my shifts at the library.

Every night at ten, when the library closes, I stay with two other work-study students to put the books back on the shelves.

After work, Nicole always leaves me a cup of hot water in our dorm.

Sometimes she orders pizza for a late-night snack and asks me beforehand if I want to join.

They’re all such small, insignificant things, yet it takes me a long time to get used to them.

I learn that people ask if I have time before asking me for help.

I learn that saying no doesn’t have to come with guilt or accusations.

I learn that a normal relationship doesn’t require me to keep sacrificing myself just to hold it together.

In mid-November, three boxes arrive from home.

Inside are my certificates, photo albums, textbooks, and old clothes.

Mom has cleaned every single thing carefully.

On top sits the white wolf plushie, still crushed and misshapen from when it was packed away.

There’s also a handwritten letter.

Mom says my room has been restored.

The walls are painted back to their original color, and my bed and desk have been moved back in.

The piano has been placed in Victoria’s room instead.

She tells me not to worry. And there will always be a place for me at home.

After reading the letter, I put it in a drawer along with the key to the Packhouse.

I don’t reply.

They still don’t understand.

A bed that has been moved can be bought again.

A bookshelf that has been emptied can be filled again.

But when I stood at the school payment office and watched the balance in my account fall short, I felt something I can never get back.

The feeling that everyone had chosen to give up on me.

As finals approach, Dylan suddenly sends me a photo.

It’s a pack map, its edges worn from years of use.

[I found this in the storage bin.]

Another message follows.

[Every time we had pack patrol drills, you used to mark the rogue ambush points and danger zones for me.]

[I always thought it was easy. Turns out it isn’t. I nearly got hurt today because I missed one.]

I don’t answer.

The next day, Anthony sends me a document.

It’s the paperwork he used for various activities throughout college.

Every page follows the exact same format I used when I organized everything for him in high school.

[I tried doing all my paperwork myself yesterday.]

[I was up until three in the morning fixing everything. That’s when I realized how much you used to do for me.]

I still don’t reply.

Little by little, they begin noticing traces of me in their everyday lives.

Dylan can’t find the pack meeting files.

Anthony forgets to submit the pack resource requests.

No one reminds Dad about his medical checkup.

When Mom has a problem with an online order, there’s no one to spend an hour going back and forth with customer service to arrange a return.

None of these things are particularly difficult.

But for eighteen years, they hand every little task to me, then praise me for being the most responsible one.

Because I make everything look so easy, they gradually forget.

Those are my hours too.

Before Christmas, Mom calls me.

“Christmas break is coming. Are you coming home?”

I look at the textbooks on my desk.

“The school already approved me to stay on campus.”

“Not even Christmas Eve?”

“No.”

There’s a long silence on the other end.

Her voice becomes softer.

“Your room is all cleaned up. I washed your bedding and put fresh sheets on the bed. Your dad even bought some of your favorite food.”

I hold the phone without saying anything.

As if she’s afraid I’ll hang up, she quickly adds, “You don’t have to spend time with us if you’re not ready. Just come back to the pack for one night.”

I still refuse.

On Christmas Eve, the school prepares a holiday dinner for all the students staying on campus.

A small stage is set up outside the dining hall.

Professor Parker brings his kids and hands out little gifts.

Nicole has already gone home, but that night she suddenly video-calls me, insisting on showing me the Christmas lights on the streets in her hometown.

I laugh and watch them with her for a long time.

At midnight, I receive a photo from home.

Seven place settings are arranged around the dining table.

Mine stays empty from beginning to end.

Mom sends me one message: [Merry Christmas.]

A few minutes later, she deletes another message: [When are you coming home?]

I don’t reply. But I don’t delete it either.

The lights outside reflect against the window, illuminating my reflection.

This is the first Christmas I spend outside the pack, completely on my own.

It isn’t as lonely as I imagined.

If anything, it feels more like my own life than any Christmas I’ve ever had before.