Kai doesn’t reply. That’s new. Either he’s learning to back off or he’s spiraling in silence, which is objectively worse.
I sit up, swing my legs out of bed, and immediately regret existing because the dorm floor is cold, and the hallway outside my door is already loud. Some girls are talking about a tailgate. Someone is laughing like it’s their job. A door slams two rooms down, and my shoulders jump.
It makes me miss Wren even more. I know I could make new friends, but that’s a lot easier said than done. Even though it was a guy who completely broke my trust, it doesn’t make it any less complicated and difficult to let someone new in.
My mom pushed me to try to be social before coming here, which was obviously a futile attempt.
I pause with my hand on the doorknob and inhale slowly.
Breathe. Choose. Move.
The world doesn’t get quieter because I want it to, so I make myself smaller inside it and hope that works.
It usually doesn’t.
My first class is a discussion section, which is a cruel trick because “discussion” implies you’re supposed to talk. I sit in the back with my notebook open and my pens lined up like soldiers. The TA asks everyone to introduce themselves and share “something interesting.”
My stomach flips.
Interesting is subjective. Interesting is a trap.
When it’s my turn, I say the first true thing my brain can grab.
“I used to take classes online,” I blurt out. “So I’m…learning campus.”
The TA smiles like it’s adorable. “Great! Welcome.”
Someone across the circle says, “Oh my God, I wish I could do online classes. I hate people.”
A couple of students laugh.
I don’t.
Not because it isn’t funny, but because I can feel the difference between hating people and being afraid of them like a bruise under my skin.
After class, I escape before anyone can corner me into friendship.
Outside, the sun is warm and the air smells like eucalyptus again, which should feel soothing but doesn’t because campus still sounds like a thousand overlapping conversations.
My next lecture isn’t for another hour, which means I have time.
Time is dangerous, mainly because it allows my brain to be creative but also lets it wander into forbidden waters.
It seems to enjoy spending a lot of time on Grayson lately, which…I can’t say I hate.
I head toward the dining hall because my stomach is hollow and my brain is loud, and I’m trying to practice choosing discomfort instead of running from it.
That’s what therapy calls it.
Exposure.
Like I’m slowly teaching my nervous system that food won’t kill me and neither will other people.
The dining hall is a wall of sound. Trays clattering. Chairs scraping. A hundred different smells hitting me at once—grease, syrup, coffee, something sweet and artificial that makes my nose itch.
My body stiffens, and my mind automatically starts calculating all the different choices, calorie amounts, and outcomes that could happen.
Too many people, too many noises, too many food options.
