I type back the bland truth.
Harlow: Alive.
The reply comes quickly.
Kai: you ok? how’d the party go?
Two options:
Lie and keep the peace.
Tell the truth and risk him showing up at my dorm with a full crisis plan.
I chose the third option, because I’m learning how to exist between extremes.
Harlow: I’m ok. Just tired.
A pause.
Then:
Kai: breakfast?
My stomach tightens.
Food is already a thing in my brain before I even sit up most days, like an alarm system that never learned how to shut off. Breakfast texts make it louder, even when they’re well-intentioned.
I type carefully.
Harlow: I’ll grab something later.
Another pause.
Kai: ok. just…let me know when you do.
Not a fight.
Not a lecture.
Just a request.
Progress, I guess.
I toss my phone onto the bed and force myself into motion before my brain can glue me here. Shower. Teeth. Hoodie. Hair shoved into a half-decent situation. I pause in front of the mirror longer than I mean to. My eyes look tired. My face looks…fine. Normal, even. Which is always the weirdest part. My body can be a war zone, and my reflection still looks like a girl who could go to class and laugh with her friends and eat a muffin without thinking about it.
Sometimes I hate her.
Sometimes I feel sorry for her.
Today, I just look away.
Campus in the morning is quieter—still crowded, still noisy, but softer around the edges. People move like they’re waking up too. The sun is warm, the air smells like eucalyptus, and for a few minutes, I can pretend I’m just another student walking to breakfast.
Breakfast.
My stomach twists.
I can feel yesterday’s version of myself in my bones—the frozen feet, the drowning feeling, the way choices can turn into a threat.
