No matter how distant the thought of me actually attending college seems, I can’t stop thinking about it. All week, my brain strays to a picture-perfect campus life—friends I collaborate with in the studio with, a work-study job where I make some pocket change and get to keep writing my music, and Charlie as my roommate.
It takes up the forefront of my mind, but so does a creeping suspicion. The guys have been quiet for most of the week. It seems everyone has resorted to ignoring me, and I can’t tell if I should be ecstatic or worried.
Worried seems more fitting since they’ve never gone this long without tormenting me. As the weekend rolls around, and I’m stuck at home alone, my anxiety becomes worse. The college fantasy takes a backseat as I sit in my room with my textbooks scattered around me.
I’m trying to work on my speech, but I feel sick.
What are they plotting?
I know Maddox has been gunning for valedictorian since freshman year. Losing to me is cause for something horrible.
Not knowing what they’re thinking is the worst part. Are they plotting to hurt me? Maybe they’ll release another deep fake of me saying something embarrassing?
The possibilities are endless, and it’s eating away at my mental state as the days progress. I’m not sleeping, and eating makes my stomach churn. I feel like I’m on the verge of a mental break if I keep this up.
It gets harder to pull myself back to the present. I know I have to keep pushing, but sometimes I don’t think I have the strength.
I feel hollow—lifeless.
Like I’m a shell just aimlessly going through the motions. I’ve gone past the point of tears, and the ache in my chest radiates down my arms and into my cold fingertips.
I feel dead inside.
As I shuffle my papers, I can’t even make out the smooth texture on my fingers. It’s like my body is shutting down, and I don’t know how to stop it.
“One more month,” I grit as I shake my head and rub a trembling hand across my eyes. I’m unraveling at the seams.
Something slips out of my backpack, and my eyes catch on the Juilliard pamphlet as it settles on my bed. I frown as I pick it up.
Charlie must have slipped this into my bag while I wasn’t paying attention.
Sure enough, there’s a pink sticky note attached to the inside of the packet with her delicate handwriting.
If you change your mind.
235 Seacrest Avenue, Mystic, Connecticut.
It’s a sweet gesture, and for a moment, I actually think of abandoning my room and trudging across town to the suburbs where my friend lives with her parents. I think of it, but as I push the college brochure back into my bookbag, I know I’m not brave enough.
Putting together a portfolio involves someone seeing what I write. After Maddox read one of my songs out loud like it was slam poetry, the thought of anyone else discovering my music makes my stomach tighten—like nausea wrapped up in coiled tension. It makes my chest feel unbearably heavy and weighed down by an invisible force pushing against me.
It’s suffocating.
And a reminder that sometimes dreams are just that.
Imagination and make-believe.
Nothing more.
Chapter Nine
Rosalie
My weekend is uneventful, and Dad is still missing. He left with his friends on Monday morning, and I haven’t seen him since.
Good.
A few years back, Dad going missing would have set me on edge. I would have been searching all around town for him, checking the local bars and neighborhoods for his passed-out, slumped form in the ditches. Most of the time, I would end up at the police station, seated in the sterile lobby with my hands crossed over my lap as I waited for the officers to release him.
