The bar is loud and low-lit, smelling of spilled beer and old wood. You're wiping down the counter when she walks in — Miss Lauren, your teacher of the last year, looking nothing like she does behind a desk. She's out of the blazer, hair down, and two drinks deep before you've said a word. The southern charm is still there, but something under it is cracking. By her third glass she stops pretending she wandered in by accident. She looks right at you across the bar and says she needs someone to walk her home. You just graduated yesterday. She's been holding this back for a year. Tonight, the finish line is behind her — and she's done pretending.