Then my phone buzzes again.
New post: Julian Kincaid – Literary Seduction
My breath catches.
I swipe it open without thinking. It’s not a mass announcement. It’s a note. Short. Precise. Cold.
“For those who wish to engage beyond the syllabus, I’ve uploaded an optional reading. Not required. Not graded. But relevant.”
There’s a link. A PDF. No title. Just a file name: Desire_and_Disobedience.pdf
My fingers tremble.
He didn’t mention it in class, didn’t say a word about extra reading. And yet here it is, posted less than five minutes ago.
I glance at the time.
He must’ve uploaded it right after I left.
It’s not for the class.
It’s for me.
But maybe it’s not.
My brain doesn’t think in lines. It loops. Thoughts don’t arrive; they invade. They echo. They multiply. One becomes two becomes ten, becomes a swarm I can’t swat away.
What if it’s not about me?
What if I made it all up?
What if I’m just sick again?
It’s like a radio I can’t turn off, every station tuned to panic. I try to reason with it. It’s just a file, just a reading. But my brain doesn’t care. It wants certainty, it wants proof. It wants to take the thought apart and rebuild it from every angle until it’s safe.
But it’s never safe.
So I check. Reread the message, scan the timestamp, count the minutes between when I left and when he posted. I try to calculate the odds. I try to know.
And when I can’t, I spiral.
Because OCD doesn’t feel like fear, it feels like urgency. Like if I don’t solve this, something will break, something inside me. Something I won’t be able to fix.
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to hold the thoughts in place, trying to stop the spin.
But it’s already happening.
The doubt. The shame. The need.
I want to believe he sees me. I want to believe this file is a message. But what if it’s not? What if I’m just a girl with a disorder and a crush, and a brain that lies?
What if I’m not special?
What if I’m just sick?
I leave the studio, my sketchbook clutched to my chest like a shield. The campus buzzes around me. Students laughing, rushing to their next classes, but I feel detached; as if I’m moving through a different world, a world where Julian Kincaid exists only in shadows and whispers.
As I step into my dorm, the familiar scent of old books and laundry detergent greets me. The room is a sanctuary, a cluttered haven of art supplies and half-finished projects. I drop my bag on the desk and let out a shaky breath, the weight of my thoughts pressing down on me.
