The “P” graduates are passing on the stage, receiving their diplomas when my phone finally vibrates. I scramble to see his text: I’m picking up my paycheck after the ceremony, and then I’ll go to your dad’s for the party. Just a heads-up.

Huh? What paycheck? I look at the name at the top of the messages—Amanda.

That makes more sense.

What the hell, though? I look back again, lifting on my hand to balance. Another scan and I still don’t see him. My row is summoned to stand before I have a chance to text again. I walk down the aisle, searching row after row behind me.

The pit of my stomach grows heavy with worry. Something’s not right. I need to see him. I need to see that Harbor was real and that this wasn’t a dream. I’m about to detour back at the end of the row, but the professor herds us forward toward the side of the stage.

I pull my phone out and start texting Amanda: Do you see Harbor?

I send and then type: Have you seen him at all since you’ve been here?

Amanda finally replies: Haven’t seen him. You know my eyesight is crap. Maybe he’s using the bathroom. Remember when I missed Taylor Swift because I had an irritable bowel as soon as we arrived at the stadium?

As much as I’d love to travel down memory lane, I send another text: Hard to forget your IB that night. Hey, do me a favor and look for the Westcotts. They should be here somewhere.

The stage is only a few feet ahead when she replies: I don’t see his family, but I can’t make everyone out.

I’m told to shuffle forward to the base of the stairs. I tuck my phone into my pocket and then straighten the graduate robe over it. Holding my head high, I climb the stairs and wait until I hear, “Lark Summerlin.”

I start walking, but my gaze drifts to the graduates at the back where the W names would sit. I hate that I make this about him. The moment is stolen after years of hard work. Face forward, Lark. I force myself into this moment right here and accept my diploma under cheers. I expected the loudest in the crowd to be my boyfriend, but it wasn’t. It was my dad. I smile when I hear him, stop, pose, take the photo, and keep walking.

I gallop down the stairs and start back for my seat. This gives me the best perspective to see the remaining graduates. I’m not the shortest person, but I feel it right now. Even on my tiptoes, I can’t see the back left center rows.

Following my fellow graduates, I find my seat again and clasp my hands together on my lap to keep from fidgeting, or from checking my phone every five seconds. I’m surprised not to hear from him.

I’m not sure at what point I went numb, probably around X, but I watch the other graduates alphabetically after me until the last Z crosses that stage. Nothing makes sense, so when the caps are thrown, I’m rushing through the celebrating graduates. Caps are landing all around me, and people are hugging.