I was able to sit still through the first six speeches given by the faculty without letting my mind wander. I was even able to keep my attention on the stage for the valedictorian speech, the three choir performances by the graduating seniors, and the guest speaker—who I vaguely recognized as one of the big business moguls who attended USW in the early 2000s—but now that the dean of students is standing behind the podium reminiscing about his own graduation with a wistful look on his wrinkled face, I can't seem to keep my attention on the ceremony.

Instead, I'm looking down at my leg, restlessly bouncing underneath me, trying not to give in to the emotion that's been brewing since last night; trying not to think about how soon, in a matter of days, I'll be taking a flight out of Pullman, away from everything I've built here in this small college town.

I knew it was coming, the heartbreak, the inevitable homesickness, and it hit me full force while I celebrated in O'Malley's with my best friends last night. After our family dinner ended, Tristan and I promised to meet everyone at the bar, but when we showed up rosy-cheeked and a little disheveled, I could tell that everyone knew we didn't really hit traffic in the sleepy, post-term college town. But aside from an exaggerated wink from Luke and a knowing smirk from Nia, no one called us out for stopping off in the parking lot behind the closed-down supermarket to make the most of one of our last nights together.

I felt the first real twinge of heartbreak when I drunkenly high-fived Micah after we won a round of beer pong against Nia and Luke. His gray eyes were crinkled in a smile as he threw his arm around my shoulders and held up his beer in celebration, and I realized that in the few short months that I've known him, he was finally starting to let me through the boarded up walls that, to my knowledge, only his roommates have been able to push past.

He grinned down at me, and while the music was blaring and the loud conversations and laughter from the crowded bar around us nearly drowned it out, I knew I heard him correctly because I could read his lips in the dimly lit bar.

"I'm going to miss you when you're gone, Ryan." He grinned down at me, his lazy smile a little wider thanks to the alcohol drowning his blood. "It was kind of nice having a girl around all the time. You and Jenny made the house feel a little less...I don't know, lonely, I guess. It was nice."

My heart broke a little more when Jenny dragged me over to the bar and pulled her stool as close to mine as she could so we could reminisce as we downed the three shots she ordered for us. She was coming close to level-ten-Jenny, which was pretty apparent by her drunken babble, but I didn't mind in the slightest as she rattled on about her favorite memories of us through the years.

Meeting for the first time in our freshman dorm.

Blasting our favorite playlists while we cleaned the apartment—which always turned into an hour-long concert of us dancing around and singing way louder than our neighbors probably appreciated.

Her and Nia pulling me out to our first college party on the first day of freshman year—the same Anything But Clothes party that I saw Tristan at for the first time. Thinking back, I was instantly distracted by the memory of him with neon caution tape wrapped around his hips, leaving the rest of his perfectly sculpted body on display. I remember that moment so vividly—pouring my rum and coke a little slower than necessary just to get a few extra seconds to admire him standing across the kitchen with the rest of his team.

But when Jenny's glistening eyes caught my attention, I tried to push the thought of how good he looked that night to the back of my mind and focused on my best friend, who was dangerously close to breaking down as she pulled me into a hug, nearly toppling us off the stools as she swayed back slightly. I held onto her tightly and let the rosy smell of her perfume pull me back into those memories, wanting to laugh at myself as I felt my own eyes start to water. I owe so much to her and Nia, and when I pulled her closer and told her how much I love her, she tightened her hold on me, and I knew she knew exactly how much she meant to me.

As if that wasn't enough, later that night, my heart broke a little more when Luke dropped down onto the couch beside me, resting his arm on the back of the sofa as he smiled down at me, offering some of the chips he brought over from the bar. I accepted them happily, too buzzed at that point to get up and grab some of my own. His smile grew when I pulled out the bag of chocolate cookies that I packed in my purse for when I inevitably got a sweet tooth craving—which has only escalated since I started the pill a few weeks ago. And so we sat, side by side, sharing our snacks and taking pictures with ridiculous filters for my Instagram stories.

That was the moment our group chat was born. Luke pulled out his phone, a chocolate cookie stashed between his perfect teeth, as he added each of us to the chat—Micah, Tristan, James, Jenny, Nia, and me.

"The wolf pack has grown by three." He smirked, sending a single eggplant emoji to the group. I could have cried again. I could have wrapped my arms around Luke and held him to me while I appreciated how much I loved my little family, my wolf pack, here in Pullman, but I didn't have the chance because when the sound of Tristan clearing his throat softly pulled my attention, I looked over my shoulder to see him smiling down at me with his hand extended.

And that's when I felt my heart really break. It shattered in my chest when he pulled me out onto the dance floor with a giant grin on his tanned face as he wrapped his arms around my waist and rested his chin on the top of my head. He led us in a slow dance, entirely offbeat for the fast-paced song blasting through the speakers around us. I closed my eyes and tried to memorize how his arms felt holding me to him, and I knew instantly that was a moment I wanted to live in forever.

I guess that's when it hit me. Pullman was my home for the past four years, but as of a few months ago, that all changed. Because when I looked up to see him smiling down at me, his dimple indented deeply as he stepped back and lifted his arm to spin me under it, I knew that Pullman wasn't my home anymore. He pulled me back into his arms, only this time his hand came up to cup my cheek, tilting my head back to look up at him, and when he smiled down at me before bringing his lips down to my own, I knew—he was my home.

When the orchestra starts to play on stage, I look up, pulled out of the memories from last night. That's probably a good thing because when I reach up to inconspicuously dab away the tears slowly springing in my eyes, threatening to ruin my eye makeup, I catch sight of my family in their seats. My face flames at the sign my Nana proudly holds up over her head, and I read the huge crimson words painted onto the white poster board—proudest Nana in the world.

Sitting beside her, my mother looks decidedly less excited about the sign, but she seems too distracted trying to figure out how to work the camera in her hands to tell Nana to calm down. Jeff and Mark, who I suspect were the culprits behind the sign idea in the first place, look entirely too happy about the situation, likely because I'm sure they can see me turning a dark shade of red from their seats. When they flash big grins and sarcastic thumbs-up, I know that's their way of teasingly saying, proudest brothers in the world.

Lessa is the only one trying to help me out. Thankfully, she's able to distract Nana by pulling out her phone to show her something, which effectively draws her attention and allows her to drop the sign. When I catch Tristan's amused smile as he looks over his shoulder at me from the front row, I know that he saw it, too.

His head turns back quickly at the sound of heavy footsteps walking across the stage, and when I follow his gaze, Coach Kennley is walking to the podium. The stage lights reflect off his bald head comically, and he shakes the dean's hand quickly before taking his place behind the podium. He blinks out at the crowd, considering us all for a long moment before pulling out notecards from the pocket inside his suit jacket. Leaning into the mic, he smiles, but even from here, I can see his face pale as he looks out to the packed stadium.

"Don't worry, this is the last speech you'll have to suffer through before the graduates walk. Although, thanks to my terrible public speaking skills, it will undoubtedly be the most torturous."

A low rumble of laughter echoes around the arena, and he seems to relax a little at the sound. That small moment of comfort all but evaporates when a roar of cheers sounds, turning the heads of every graduate to see the entire basketball team standing in the front row of the stands. They're waving around red and white streamers, signs for each graduating senior, ridiculous-looking pompoms, and if I'm not mistaken, I'm pretty sure I spot Luke holding a vuvuzela blow horn.

Their coach motions for them to sit down, and they obediently oblige, but not before Micah cups his hands around his mouth and yells for his coach to "take it off," which elicits a rumble of laughter from the floor of graduates. His coach simply shoots him a withering look before fixing his tie and leaning back into the microphone, his face even paler than before. Every time I've been around Coach Kennely, he's had such a solid, stern presence; it's a little unnerving to see him so . . . nervous.

"I have been fortunate enough to coach here at the University of Southern Washington for the past thirty years. They have been some of the best years of my life, both personally and professionally, and I owe a thank you to each and every one of my players for that." He smiles, gaze flicking through the sea of black graduation gowns, searching for each of his three graduating seniors.

"I like to view each practice as an opportunity to teach these young men. Not just about shooting positions, or defensive intelligence, or how to set up the perfect pick and roll—I like to teach these men about life. About what it means to be a good man in this world, about what it means to be a good person in this world. But what I've come to find over the past few years is that I've stopped teaching as much, and I've started learning." He pauses, spotting James a few rows over from me. He nods to him, smiling softly before continuing.

"I've watched these freshmen, who come to me as boys, turn into men by the time they leave. I've watched them grow and learn from the world around them, a world that has changed so drastically since I was a player on this court. They're learning, adapting, and stepping up in ways that I never even dreamed of. These men perform in an arena where they are not accustomed to being heard—but rather seen. These men are athletes. They are warriors. They speak through action—through scoring points and defending their basket. They speak through fighting for their team's undefeated title and the reputation of this school. But as of late, they have proven me prouder than I could have ever imagined because they are stepping outside of what is expected and encouraged of athletes. They are taking stands and making choices, and using their position of influence in this world for the benefit of those around them. And that stride toward change was led by one player in specific—Tristan Beck."

My heart stops as I sit up straighter, trying to see over the crowd, but everyone else around me is also craning their neck to see Tristan, so all I can see are the bobbing caps and swaying tassels.

"Tristan Beck came to this school when we were at our worst. We had the worst record in our division's history. We hadn't won a game in God knows how long. I had to stop keeping track to keep up morale in the locker room. And while he had the option to play at any school in the country, he chose here. He chose us. And because of that, we have built a dynasty together. A dynasty that will become his legacy when he leaves here. And after speaking with his fellow teammates, the dean of students, and the entire training and coaching staff that have had the pleasure of working with him for the past four years, there has been a unanimous decision to gift Mr. Beck with the highest honor an athlete can be given."

He steps back, motioning toward a stagehand below. When a black cloth is pulled down from the rafters, my breath catches in my throat at the white USW jersey hanging above.

Tristan's jersey number—3—and last name are inked boldly across the back.

"In honor of his contributions to his team, and to this school, The University of Southern Washington has decided to retire Tristan Beck's jersey."

I'm crying. I'm crying hot, fat, mascara-ruining tears as I join the rest of the arena's deafening cheers. The entire floor of graduates stands, turning toward him while cheering—thanking him, one last time, for bringing so much pride to our school. For reigniting a school spirit that had been extinguished for so long. For creating something that we'll all be proud to watch grow long after we all leave here.

His cheeks are flushed, and he shakes the hands of the few graduates who have left their seats to go see him, and when I look up in the crowd, I can't hold back my laughter as his teammates scream their heads off, waving around their banners and streamers. Luke stands up on his seat, brings the horn to his lips, and blows hard enough to create a noise so loud my ears start to ring.

I catch sight of Tristan's family sitting a single row behind his team, and when his mom leans into his dad's shoulder as he wraps his arm around her, trying to wipe away his tears with the tissue in his hands, a new wave of tears spring in my eyes.

"Alright, alright." His coach leans into the microphone, motioning for everyone to settle down, but it takes a few moments for the stubborn crowd to silence their cheers because this is the last time that they'll ever be able to cheer for him—as a USW student, at least.

Tristan looks up at the stadium, eyes wide as if he realizes this is the last time he'll ever experience this, and when he smiles and waves up at the crowd, silently thanking them for their support for the past four years, their answering screams send a rush of goosebumps down my arms.

When the cheers finally die down enough for his voice to be heard again, Coach Kennely leans into the microphone and thanks everyone for supporting the team. And with a smile that looks shaky, even from here, he descends the stairs and walks right up to Tristan, who stands and wraps his arms around his coach. If I wasn't crying before, I am now, and when the girl sitting beside me offers me a tissue that she pulled from the pocket of her gown, I take it quickly. By the time I look back up, his coach is taking his seat, and the dean of students stands while the first few rows of students are led backstage.

He says a brief closing statement about being extraordinarily excited to see what we all accomplish, and then the first graduate's name is called, and we all watch as she leads the first line of graduates out onto the stage. They shake the hands of the six faculty members standing in a row, look out to the crowd and smile, and then walk off the stage as official USW graduates.

Tristan is the first of us to walk, and as predicted, when his name is announced, the entire arena claps, though it's nearly drowned out by the sound of Luke's horn. He smiles wide at the dean as he shakes his hand and then makes his way across the stage, waving to Georgia, who's sitting on Garrett's shoulders, waving her hands frantically over her head to try to get his attention.

Since we're going in order of our programs, both Jenny and Nia walk before me, and I swear I nearly burst my vocal cords screaming for them as they cross the stage. When our little section of journalism majors is ushered to the back, my heart hammers painfully as I follow them up the back steps.

Don't trip. Don't freeze. Shake with your right hand. Don't forget to smile. I rattle off the different reminders just in case, and when the person standing with a clipboard asks for my name, I stare at her dumbfounded as I wrack my brain. It takes a few seconds for me to register her question before I tell her, and I shake out my trembling hands as the person ahead of me walks out onto the stage.

Ushering me to the edge of the curtain, she smiles as if she can feel my anxiety.

"Wait for your name, then walk."

I nod.

I don't even have time to take a full breath before my name echoes out through the speakers.

"Abigail Ryan."

I start to walk, but the explosion of noise startles me, and I look out to the crowd to see Tristan smiling up at me as he claps from his seat near the front. Jenny and Nia's high-pitched screams are clear, and I catch their hands waving in the air excitedly, but they're overpowered by the loud blaring of that ridiculous horn that Luke is blowing into full force as the entire basketball team screams out while waving around their streamers and pompoms.

I briefly catch Tristan's family standing and cheering, and then my eyes land a few rows back to my Nana, who is all but jumping up and down while waving her sign around. Thankfully, I make it to the dean without tripping, and I accept my diploma while shaking his hand—with the correct hand, thank God—and thank him before moving on to the following three faculty members, who all have their hands outstretched for me to shake.

It happens so quickly. One second, I'm smiling and shaking hands, and the next, I'm walking down the steps and being ushered back toward my seat with the rest of the journalism majors. I can't seem to take my eyes off the paper in my hands, the one that costs more money than I'm willing to think about at the moment, and I can't hold back the huge smile pulling at my lips because I did it.

I'm a college graduate.

I stare, dazed and in disbelief, at the diploma for the rest of the ceremony, and then, after the dean shakes the last graduate's hand and steps back up to the podium, he directs us all to stand.

I place my diploma down on my seat and stand with the rest of the students. My adrenaline spikes when I catch Jenny leaning around the person next to her, just to be in my eye line, and when she gives me a holy fucking shit, this is really happening look, I beam at her. The crowd has already started cheering, and the energy building around the room is coaxing more adrenaline into my veins, enough to make my heart race in my chest.

"Now, it is my great pleasure to ask the graduating class of 2020 to please turn your tassels from the right to the left."

His comment is lost in the all-encompassing explosion of cheers from the surrounding crowd, and I look up to my family as I lift the tassel on my cap and move it to the other side. My Nana is in absolute shambles, wiping her tears with a tissue while still trying to hold onto her