Kai: proud of you for showing up today. we have an away game tonight so i am about to head for the bus. it’s only a couple hours away, so we’ll be back late tonight. text me later when you’re back in your dorm for the night?
My chest squeezes. Not because he’s wrong. Because it’s my brother telling me he’s proud of something that should be normal, and I don’t know how to hold that without feeling like I’m five. I blink hard, take a sip of coffee, and force myself to exist in the moment instead of the feeling.
Across the shop, two girls are talking about a party from the weekend. A guy in a beanie taps his pen against his notebook like he’s in his own world.
Normal. Normal. Normal.
I open my laptop and make a to-do list so I don’t spiral.
• read chapter 3
• email advisor about major options
• laundry
• do not panic
The last one makes me huff a small laugh under my breath. I should add something about remembering to text Kai after his game, but I’m sure he’ll find the time to check in if I happen to forget.
Halfway through reading the syllabus, my phone buzzes again—not a text this time.
A calendar reminder.
Therapy.
I stare at the alert for a beat.
Virtual session at 3:00 p.m. every Tuesday and Thursday.
Sometimes it feels like an anchor. Sometimes it feels like proof I’m not normal. Today, it feels like relief. Because my brain is too loud, and I’m tired of carrying it by myself.
By the time I’m back in my dorm that evening, the day has done what it always does—worn me down in a slow, utterly draining way.
Nothing bad even happened. It’s just the weight of being perceived and the endless cycle of worrying what people might be thinking of me.
I take my therapy session at my desk with headphones on, knees pulled to my chest, and tell Dr. Reed about the barbecue. About leaving early. About how it still feels like a victory even though part of me thinks it shouldn’t.
She asks gentle questions. I answer carefully. I don’t mention Grayson.
I’m not sure why. Maybe because saying his name out loud would make the curiosity feel more real.
After therapy, I do laundry and hate every second of it. I eat dinner in the dining hall and spend the whole time pretending I don’t feel watched, even though no one is watching. Of course Kai somehow managed to sneak in a text between periods of his game to make sure I had gotten food.
When I get back to my room, it’s only seven, but my body feels wrecked. My brain, though, is not. I change into pajamas and crawl into bed with my book. Two pages. Three. Five. The words blur. The quiet swells until it’s not quiet at all—until it’s filled with thoughts I didn’t invite.
My phone sits on the nightstand. When I pick it up, I notice the time.
11:11 p.m.
Feels like even the clock is telling me to message him. It’s ridiculous that a stranger’s username has become something I look forward to.
It’s also true.
I click into the chat like I’m stepping into a familiar room.
And there he is.
NumberEleven — online.
