Chapter 5 · All The Miles I Wasted

11:20.

Only forty minutes left to send it in.

The file was corrupted, the final draft had vanished from my computer, and the cloud hadn't backed it up.

Henry finally realized how serious things were and reached for the mouse. "Let me help you look for it."

I pushed his hand aside. "Don't touch it."

My words hung in the air, cold enough to chill the whole room.

Henry froze.

Olivia was sniffling on the couch, her voice shaky as she spoke. "I'm so sorry, Nina. It really was an accident. Maybe I should talk to your advisor for you?"

I stared her down, "Explain what?

"Explain how you 'accidentally' deleted my thesis, and wiped the recycle bin too?"

Her gaze wavered for a split second. "I didn't empty the recycle bin. Don't pin this on me."

"Did I ever say you emptied it?" I shot back.

Olivia's crying stopped mid-sound, caught in her throat.

Henry shot her a look.

Only for a moment.

Then he turned away.

"Now's not the time to point fingers," Henry said.

For him, whenever the truth made Olivia look bad, it was never the right time to bring it up.

I checked the computer's recent files and spotted a path to some temp files.

I'd spent half a year on this thesis. Thankfully, all my research was still intact.

The final draft was gone, but I could try to salvage it from the saved versions.

Henry was right next to me, speaking in a low voice. "I'll call your advisor, see if he can give you more time."

"No need."

"Nina, this isn't the time to act tough."

"Henry, do you even know my advisor?"

He was left speechless.

He didn't even know what my thesis was about after all these years.

He had no idea how many nights I'd pulled all-nighters for that Kingston University joint project.

He never realized why, every single time I came to see him, I had to lug my suitcase and bring my laptop along.

Of course he didn't know everything.

All he ever cared about was Olivia's sore ankle, how she couldn't stand second-class seats, and how she wanted the pumpkin pies he cut himself for Thanksgiving.

11:35.

I dragged all the different versions of my thesis onto the desktop and started sorting them by chapter.

Olivia's phone rang.

She glanced at the screen and hung up right away.

Less than thirty seconds later, it rang again.

Henry asked, "Who is it?"

"Someone from my program," she rested her phone face down on her knee. "They're texting me nonstop to get back and help with the Thanksgiving show."

The screen was still lit up.

The caller ID flashed two words: [Simon Pryce].

Simon Pryce.

I'd seen that name before.

He was the president of the Kingston University Literary Society, and the guy who was always hanging around Olivia, trying to impress her.

Henry definitely noticed it too.

His face darkened.

Olivia rushed to explain, her voice a little shaky. "He's helping me pick up my costume."

I didn't look up.

I kept typing, my fingers flying over the keyboard.

11:46.

My advisor sent another message: [Nina, the recommendation materials have to be uploaded to the Kingston University system tonight. No more delays.]

Kingston University's system.

My eyes lingered on those four words.

Henry was at Kingston University, and his advisor was part of the joint research group.

He knew how much this spot meant to me.

He also knew that if I got into the Kingston University joint research project, I'd have a shot at coming to Kingston for my PhD next year.

That was the future I'd been dreaming about for the past three years.

My phone buzzed again.

This time, it wasn't my advisor.

It was a text from a number I didn't recognize.

The number said: [Nina Hughes, your joint research project materials were already submitted on the 13th by Henry Carter. The system shows everything is complete. If you're submitting them again tonight, please let us know the reason.]

I stared at those words.

The 13th. This month.

That day, Henry told me he was at the college helping Olivia with her performance application and didn't have time for a video call.

But all along, he'd already submitted my materials for me.

And he never said a word about it.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Henry suddenly leaned over, trying to peek at my phone.

I quickly locked the screen.

It was 11:58, and I still hadn't hit send.

Chapter 5

11:20.

Only forty minutes left to send it in.

The file was corrupted, the final draft had vanished from my computer, and the cloud hadn't backed it up.

Henry finally realized how serious things were and reached for the mouse. "Let me help you look for it."

I pushed his hand aside. "Don't touch it."

My words hung in the air, cold enough to chill the whole room.

Henry froze.

Olivia was sniffling on the couch, her voice shaky as she spoke. "I'm so sorry, Nina. It really was an accident. Maybe I should talk to your advisor for you?"

I stared her down, "Explain what?

"Explain how you 'accidentally' deleted my thesis, and wiped the recycle bin too?"

Her gaze wavered for a split second. "I didn't empty the recycle bin. Don't pin this on me."

"Did I ever say you emptied it?" I shot back.

Olivia's crying stopped mid-sound, caught in her throat.

Henry shot her a look.

Only for a moment.

Then he turned away.

"Now's not the time to point fingers," Henry said.

For him, whenever the truth made Olivia look bad, it was never the right time to bring it up.

I checked the computer's recent files and spotted a path to some temp files.

I'd spent half a year on this thesis. Thankfully, all my research was still intact.

The final draft was gone, but I could try to salvage it from the saved versions.

Henry was right next to me, speaking in a low voice. "I'll call your advisor, see if he can give you more time."

"No need."

"Nina, this isn't the time to act tough."

"Henry, do you even know my advisor?"

He was left speechless.

He didn't even know what my thesis was about after all these years.

He had no idea how many nights I'd pulled all-nighters for that Kingston University joint project.

He never realized why, every single time I came to see him, I had to lug my suitcase and bring my laptop along.

Of course he didn't know everything.

All he ever cared about was Olivia's sore ankle, how she couldn't stand second-class seats, and how she wanted the pumpkin pies he cut himself for Thanksgiving.

11:35.

I dragged all the different versions of my thesis onto the desktop and started sorting them by chapter.

Olivia's phone rang.

She glanced at the screen and hung up right away.

Less than thirty seconds later, it rang again.

Henry asked, "Who is it?"

"Someone from my program," she rested her phone face down on her knee. "They're texting me nonstop to get back and help with the Thanksgiving show."

The screen was still lit up.

The caller ID flashed two words: [Simon Pryce].

Simon Pryce.

I'd seen that name before.

He was the president of the Kingston University Literary Society, and the guy who was always hanging around Olivia, trying to impress her.

Henry definitely noticed it too.

His face darkened.

Olivia rushed to explain, her voice a little shaky. "He's helping me pick up my costume."

I didn't look up.

I kept typing, my fingers flying over the keyboard.

11:46.

My advisor sent another message: [Nina, the recommendation materials have to be uploaded to the Kingston University system tonight. No more delays.]

Kingston University's system.

My eyes lingered on those four words.

Henry was at Kingston University, and his advisor was part of the joint research group.

He knew how much this spot meant to me.

He also knew that if I got into the Kingston University joint research project, I'd have a shot at coming to Kingston for my PhD next year.

That was the future I'd been dreaming about for the past three years.

My phone buzzed again.

This time, it wasn't my advisor.

It was a text from a number I didn't recognize.

I stared at those words.

The 13th. This month.

That day, Henry told me he was at the college helping Olivia with her performance application and didn't have time for a video call.

But all along, he'd already submitted my materials for me.

And he never said a word about it.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Henry suddenly leaned over, trying to peek at my phone.

I quickly locked the screen.

It was 11:58, and I still hadn't hit send.