A hand, gentle, on my arm.
I flinch, eyes snapping to Clara. The warm touch against my skin is a shock, a violation, even if it’s meant to ground me. I fight the urge to rip my arm away and claw for space.
She’s kneeling in front of me now, expression soft, eyes wide with concern. “T? Whoa. You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
I drag in another breath. It stutters, then catches. My ribs feel too tight. My head is already throbbing like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.
“It’s just 4C’s door,” Zoë says from the couch, her voice less sharp than usual. “He’s an asshole. That’s all.”
My heart is still thudding, but the drumbeat eases from sprint to run. My fingers uncurl from the fists I didn’t realize I’d made. I press my palms flat to my thighs, feel the denim, the heat of my own skin, the slight tremble that’s mine, not his.
The shame is a hot, bitter burn in my throat.
“Sorry,” I whisper. The word feels like it’s cutting its way out. “That was… dramatic. Just jumpy tonight.”
“It’s not,” Clara says, fierce now. She eases back onto the couch beside me, close but not crowding. “Don’t apologize.”
They keep talking—softly, gently, intentionally—giving me a bubble of space without calling attention to it. The illusion is cracked, but it isn’t gone. I’m still on the couch. I’m still breathing. I didn't run.
Later, after Zoë has left and Clara has fallen asleep on the sofa, I’m still awake. Frozen, really. Staring at the fairy lights. Trying to convince my body that the danger passed an hour ago.
The playlist hums quietly in the background.
The apartment is dim, warm, safe.
And I feel like my skin doesn’t fit.
I pull out my phone, the blue light stinging my eyes. I don't go to my messages. I open the web browser.
I hesitate, thumb hovering. This feels like a violation. A transgression.
My dad said give him space. He said he’s dangerous.
But my dad doesn't know about the door slamming. He doesn't know that the silence in my head is loud enough to scream.
I type his name into the student directory.
Declan Reid.
It takes three clicks. I have access because I’m student staff. I shouldn’t be using it for this.
His profile loads. A stark ID photo where he isn’t smiling. His major (Business). His status (Active). And there, at the bottom—his contact info.
I stare at the number.
I should close the tab. I should go to sleep.
Instead, I copy the number. I save it.
Declan Reid.
His name sits clean and sharp in my contacts. No hearts. No emojis. No context. Just a name that feels like a weight.
I think of him in the parking lot.Lock your doors.
I think of the rumors.Slammed him.
I think of the door slamming down the hall, and how my body is still humming with the phantom voltage of a live wire.
