LittleTooMuch: Someone invited me to go do something tonight, which at the time sounded fun, then regret creeped in.
LittleTooMuch: But I didn’t hate it once I was there.
Coincidence. Has to be. Most people will be invited to plans on a Friday night.
NumberEleven: that’s good.
NumberEleven: keep that person around.
Dots.
LittleTooMuch: Maybe. He’s quieter than most, but not in an awkward way. He just lets me breathe and hold whatever space I need to.
My eyes widen as I stare at my screen, and now I’m the one trying to be Spencer Reid and build a profile.
I shut it down.
Don’t ruin this with paranoia.
NumberEleven: quiet can be safe.
NumberEleven: you deserve safe.
A pause.
Then her reply lands soft.
LittleTooMuch: You say things like that, and it makes me want to believe you.
Before I can overthink it, I type:
NumberEleven: believe me tonight.
NumberEleven: we’ll worry about tomorrow later.
Dots.
LittleTooMuch: Ok.
LittleTooMuch: Goodnight, poet.
I snort quietly.
NumberEleven: goodnight.
I set my phone down, and while my brain is still loud, it isn’t screaming.
Not yet.
And for the first time in a long time, the thought of tomorrow doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like something I might actually want to get to. Even if I have no idea what I’m walking toward.
12
HARLOW
The rink at 6:12 p.m. is a different planet than the dining hall at noon.
It’s colder, for one. Sharper. Cleaner. The air bites your lungs in a way that feels honest instead of overwhelming. There’s no wall of competing smells, no clatter of trays, no bright overhead lights bouncing off stainless steel and making your brain feel interrogated.
