But I close my eyes and pull in a breath, forcing my feet to move. I just need to get inside first.
The faculty offices are quiet, and my gaze goes straight to Omar’s door. It’s closed and the lights are off, with no sign of him inside. Yet, for some reason… I find myself stopping in front of it as if I expected him to be waiting.
My grip on my bag tightens, and I just stand here, staring at the closed door. I could keep going, sink into my office, close the door, and let the bottle do its work until everything blurs. That would be easier. That would make everything quiet…
Maybe.
Faint clicking breaks through the silence, and I turn towards the sound. Annika’s door is open, with soft lamplight spilling into the hallway as her keyboard taps a soft rhythm against the silence.
I stare at her door a bit longer, standing in the middle of the hallway like I’ve forgotten how to move. Like my body is refusing to carry me to my office, and to the trap there waiting for me. Instead, I just listen to the gentle clacking.
From where I’m standing, I can see the part of the wall inside Annika’s office, lined with soft-lit photographs, framed in pale wood. Rolling hills under early morning fog, a rocky shoreline with seagulls caught mid-flight, a path through the forest, carpeted in pine needles and winding out of sight.
And in the middle of them… a magnolia tree.
Its branches spread low and wide, curving outward from a thick trunk that splits close to the ground, with just enough twist to look like it’s holding something up. The blossoms are in full bloom, with white and pink petals reaching for the sky as if the only things they care about are sunlight and hope.
Gentle and strong.
Softness and backbone.
My eyes stay glued to the photo as I step towards it and into her office.
The typing stops, but I keep my gaze on the flowers a second longer. Annika doesn’t say anything until I flick my eyes to her.
“Hi…” she says, hands hovering over her keyboard as she watches me standing in the middle of her office.
My gaze slowly shifts around the room, taking in the armchair in the corner, draped with a folded knit blanket and a pillow tucked into the corner. A diffuser hums on the windowsill, and the shelves are lined with books perfectly organized by subject. Everything is comfortable, neat, and welcoming.
It feels like I’m walking through a haze as I lower myself into one of the chairs across from her desk and grip my bag tightly in my lap.
Annika just watches me. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t push… she just waits.
“I…” My voice cracks, and I look down, watching my thumb drag across a fraying seam on the strap of my bag. I don’t know what I’m even trying to say. But I came in here for a reason… so I just let the words come. The ones that have been trying to come out for a while now, but didn’t know how. “I need help.”
The soft roll of her chair breaks the silence as she pushes back from her desk, and I hear the quiet sound of her steps around the desk. She sits in the chair next to me and reaches out to place her hand over mine.
My eyes lift, and I meet hers through the haze of my unshed tears. She just nods gently and squeezes my hand.
I shake my head, blinking back the tears. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll start from here,” she says, her own eyes glistening. “One step at a time. I’m with you.”
My gaze falls again to my bag in my lap, and I feel the weight of the rum bottle inside. My hands tingle and my chest tightens as I grip the bag… then push it towards her.
Annika pauses as she looks down at it. Then she releases my hand and takes it from me. She slowly unzips it and looks inside, then briefly flicks her eyes up to meet mine.
I brace for what should be coming. For her to recoil and scold me. To ask me what the fuck I was thinking, and how long have I been drinking at work. To ask me if I’ve been drunk while teaching, and tell me I’m irresponsible and deserve everything coming for me.
Which is all true.
But she doesn’t do any of that.
She just reaches inside and pulls the bottle out and turns to place it on a table behind her… out of sight.
Then she closes the zipper, lowers the bag gently to the floor beside my feet, and takes my hand again, with nothing in her eyes but compassion.
I blink hard, but the tears fall anyway as I shake my head and look down at her hand.
