I stop walking, startled by his perception. "What do you mean?"
"In psychology, is there not a concept about the professional who cannot diagnose themselves?"
"Physician, heal thyself," I murmur. "Yeah, that's a thing."
Haru adjusts his glasses. "Perhaps what you seek regarding your personal identity questions requires an external perspective."
"Are you saying I need someone else to help me figure out if I'm gay, bi, or something else?" I ask, lowering my voice even though no one's around.
"I am merely suggesting that self-discovery sometimes benefits from dialogue," Haru replies diplomatically. "As you assist others in understanding behaviour, perhaps someone could assist you in understanding yourself."
With that unexpectedly profound statement, he bows slightly and heads off toward his class, leaving me standing there with my mind racing.
The thing is, he's right. I can read anyone, except myself. I can pinpoint Haru's crush on Jamal from fifty yards, diagnose DeShawn's narcissism over a fifteen-minute lunch, and spot Tyler's happiness like it's written in neon.
But my own feelings? They're a jumbled mess I can't seem to untangle.
Well, shit, He's right. I'm kinda a mess
As I walk to my Psychology seminar, I wonder what it would be like to have someone help me figure myself out. Someone who could look at me objectively and say, "Here's what you're feeling. Here's what it means."
The irony doesn't escape me: a Psych major who needs someone else to explain his own mind to him.
Maybe Haru's right. Maybe what I need is a guide, someone to teach me how to be whatever it is that I am.
I shake my head, laughing at myself. How would that even work? "Excuse me, can you teach me how to be gay?"
Still smiling at the ridiculous thought, I push open the door to my classroom.Yeah, right. "Hi, please teach me how to be gay." That'll be the day.
Chapter 3
Pre-Med, Post-Mortified
Sebastian
My room is 126 square feet of organized chaos. Every inch serves a purpose, from the desk positioned to maximize natural light to the mini fridge stocked with brain-boosting foods. My roommates aren't home, which is a small blessing. I need silence to process this humiliation.
I drop my backpack and immediately update my schedule. A massive whiteboard covers one wall, colour-coded by subject, priority, and deadline. Now, I need to add "tutoring" somewhere in the few remaining white spaces.
My phone rings. The caller ID reads "Mom." I consider ignoring it, but guilt wins out. I haven't called home in two weeks.
"Ciao, Mamma," I answer, switching to Italian as I always do when she calls.
"Sebastiano! Finally, he remembers his mamma exists," comes her warm, melodious voice, the familiar accent of home.
"I've been busy with classes," I say, my standard excuse.
"Too busy for family? Your father asks about you. Sophia and Lucia were here Sunday for dinner. We missed you."
My guilt intensifies. My two older sisters, both working for the family construction business, live close to our parents. They're the good children who stayed.Idiot, don't be bitter.
"School is important, Mamma. I have exams to prepare for."
"Always with the books," she sighs. "Your father says the company's expansion is going well. They're breaking ground on the new development next month. He could use another Moretti on the team."
Here it comes: the subtle pressure to abandon my medical dreams and join Moretti & Son Construction, a company named for sons that, ironically, is run by two daughters.
"That's great," I say neutrally. "Send him my congratulations."
