Caleb
Yeah. After practice is good.
I’m free after 5.
Miguel
I’ll be outside the gym. Black hoodie, backwards hat, with the usual “don’t talk to me, I have a boyfriend” look on my face.
Don’t forget to drink water and eat. I mean it, baby.
I can’t help it—I smile.
Caleb
Bossy.
Miguel
You love me.
He doesn’t put a question mark on it. I don’t put one on my answer.
Caleb
Yeah. I do.
My heart feels too big for my chest and somehow too small for everything that’s trying to fit inside it. I drag myself out from under the weighted blanket. The room tilts for a second, then settles. Headache, mild. Anxiety, medium. Hope, confusingly present.
It’s a complicated mix for eight-thirty on a Monday.
By noon,I’ve sat through one lecture I barely remember and picked at a burrito bowl in the cafeteria like it’s an exam I’m failing.
Food goes in and my body registers it but doesn’t exactly celebrate.
Still counts.
I text Miguel a picture of the half-eaten bowl anyway.
Caleb
Evidence that I ate.
Miguel
That’s my boy. Again later. No starving your brain before practice. Don’t make me come and feed you.
My brain feels starved anyway.
I spend the afternoon in the library, pretending to read an article for psych while my mind keeps circling the same drain. Miguel. Extra help. Better for you. Part of me wants to be grateful. And the other part wants to panic and call the whole thing off. If he needs help because of me, isn’t that proof that I’m… hazardous? That being with me hurts him?
I catch myself twisting the hem of my sleeve until the fabric distorts. I force my hands flat on the desk and take another slow breath.
You’re doing better, I remind myself. You went to Reno. You played. Team bonding.
You’re here.
That has to count for something.
