The last days of August came quietly, like the hush after a deep breath. The trees hadn't turned yet, but Ellie could feel the shift in the air—cooler mornings, longer shadows, and that particular ache in her stomach that always came when school was about to start again.
Only this time, she wasn't the same girl who had walked the halls of Petoskey High the year before.
She was seventeen now. Living with her boyfriend. Working two jobs. Cut off from the only life she'd ever known. The Kingdom Hall, her mother, her past—all of it left behind like a coat she'd outgrown but sometimes still reached for without thinking.
She wasn't supposed to be here, and she knew it.
And worst of all—so did the state.
She sat cross-legged on the porch one afternoon, a sketchpad in her lap and a pencil tucked behind her ear, staring down at a half-finished drawing of the lake. It looked peaceful on the page, but her mind was anything but.
Dylan was at work, the house was unusually quiet, and the kids were with Melanie at the community pool. It should've felt like a break. Instead, it felt like waiting.
School started in five days. Senior year.
She'd registered herself at the public high school downtown—one district over, using Dylan's address and a forged signature from a "guardian." Dylan had been nervous, but she told him it was the only way. Her mom sure as hell wasn't going to sign anything.
"I don't want you getting in trouble," he had said the night before she dropped off the paperwork. "You're still a minor. They could force you back."
"I won't make a mistake," she'd said, trying to sound braver than she felt.
But the fear never really left. It was always there, low and constant, like a radio playing static beneath every decision she made. Because the truth was, her situation was paper-thin—legal only in the loosest terms. And if someone did find out—CPS, the school, her mom—there was a chance they'd tear her life apart. That they'd say Dylan was too old. That living with him was wrong. That she was still a child, and children didn't get to choose freedom.
Her hands trembled just thinking about it.
Later that week, Dylan drove her to the school for schedule pickup. The parking lot buzzed with teens in crop tops and hoodies, parents trailing behind them with forms and hand sanitizer. Ellie watched them from the passenger seat, her stomach twisting.
"You okay?" Dylan asked, brushing a thumb along the back of her hand.
"Yeah," she said, forcing a smile. "Just… different being here, now."
He nodded. "You've got this."
She leaned over and kissed him—quick, but real. Then grabbed her bag and stepped out into the sea of backpacks and soccer flyers.
It didn't take long to realize how out of step she was.
The halls looked the same—fluorescent lights, waxy tile floors, half-hearted motivational posters. But Ellie walked them like a ghost. Everyone else seemed lighter. Still cushioned by curfews and parents and part-time jobs they didn't need. She listened to conversations about summer vacations and college tours and the first day of volleyball practice while her thoughts stayed on bills, meal prep, babysitting shifts, and making sure no one called the wrong number and asked too many questions.
She kept her head down and her answers short.
That night, she curled up on the couch beside Dylan, the TV humming some comedy she couldn't focus on. She wore his hoodie, legs tucked under her, her sketchpad on her knees but untouched.
He looked over at her. "You've barely said a word since you got home."
"Just tired," she said.
He muted the TV. "Ellie."
She sighed. "I don't want to screw this up."
"You won't."
"You don't know that. All it takes is one nosy counselor asking why my emergency contact has the same address I do. Or someone deciding you're too old to live with me. Or my mom going full Witness-nuclear and calling the authorities."
He shifted closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "They'd have to prove it's not safe. That you're not okay. And you are okay. I mean, you're more than okay. You're working your ass off, you're keeping up with school, you're doing everything."
"But I'm still seventeen, Dylan," she whispered. "I'm still legally a child."
He leaned his forehead against hers. "Then we just make it to eighteen. One semester at a time. That's all. And we don't give anyone a reason to look closer."
She closed her eyes, nodding.
"Besides," he said softly, "if anyone comes knocking, I'll lie. I'll say you're my cousin from Wisconsin and I'm just a generous man with too many bedrooms and not enough boundaries."
She laughed despite herself. "Oh, yeah. That'll hold up in court."
They were quiet for a moment, wrapped in the warmth of the couch and the low hum of the fan in the hallway.
"I don't want to hide," she said eventually. "I don't want to live like I'm waiting to be punished."
He kissed the top of her head. "You're not hiding. You're surviving. And there's nothing shameful about that."
On the first day of school, Ellie wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a flannel Dylan insisted was lucky. She tied her hair back, put on a little mascara, and stared at herself in the mirror for a long time.
She looked… normal. Average. Maybe even forgettable.
And for the first time, that felt like power.
When she walked into the school building, no one knew what she'd left behind. No one knew how close she was to having it all unravel. They just saw a girl with a sketchpad and a careful smile.
She walked the halls like they belonged to her.
And somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the threat of being found out, she held onto the truth: she had made it this far.
The rest of the year loomed uncertain. There would be paperwork, adult conversations, maybe even questions she couldn't quite answer. But she had five months until her eighteenth birthday.
Five months to prove that her life was hers. That love didn't come with age restrictions. That freedom wasn't a privilege you earned—it was a decision you claimed.
So she did. One day at a time.
And as the wind shifted and the leaves prepared to turn, Ellie walked forward with trembling courage—knowing the line she balanced was thin, but hers.