Chapter 3
THREE
CALEB
My alarm’s been going off for fifteen minutes before I finally roll out of bed.
My body feels like lead, and my hoodie smells of Miguel’s body wash.
I left my other one at his condo last night.
Not on purpose, but I left in a hurry because I didn’t want him to convince me to stay.
I take a deep breath, but it does nothing for the tightness in my chest.
I don’t eat. Not because I’m avoiding it, I’m not trying to restrict myself, but because I know I’ll just overthink it and pick at my food until I hate myself.
Instead, I grab a granola bar from the bottom of my backpack and shove it in my mouth while I pull on an identical pair of basketball shorts, the same as the ones I wore yesterday.
They smell like laundry detergent and effort, like I’ve been trying too hard to be normal.
What the fuck even is normal?
The dorm mirror doesn’t lie. Red eyes. Bruised half-moons. Hair sticking up in every direction like I’ve been running my hands through it all night. I try not to linger at my reflection, it would be too cruel, teasing me for not being next to him in bed.
I tug the hood over my head and try to make myself invisible. I brush my teeth mechanically, staring at the mirror but not really seeing myself.
I imagine Miguel texting me again, asking if I’m alive. I imagine laughing at some stupid joke he’d make about basketball or my posture. But I don’t send anything.
I can’t.
Today is therapy day, and my mind is stuck in a loop of anxiety, so much so that my stomach hurts. The nausea creeps in, and I have to fight to keep the granola bar down.
By the time I grab my backpack and step out into the hall, the dorm feels colder than usual. The smell of cheap coffee wafts from the lounge, and I wonder if my roommate even slept at all.
I don’t care, as shitty as that sounds. I just want to get through today. Classes. Practice. Therapy. Anything that keeps me moving without falling apart completely.
The walk across campus is quiet. Fog curls around the streetlights like fingers, softening everything. I keep my head down, hoodie up, and headphones blasting some random playlist to keep the world at bay. I pass couples laughing, friends joking, and someone playing a guitar near the quad.
Normal people.
People who don’t have to pretend they’re okay every single second of every day.
I grip the straps of my backpack tighter. I’m not them. I never will be. And that thought makes the chest tighten worse, like someone’s sitting on my lungs. But I keep walking anyway, because stopping isn’t an option.
At the crosswalk, I glance up at the sky, gray and smothering, and for a second I imagine Miguel’s condo. Warm. Smelling like food. The faint trace of him still in the air. I imagine sitting there with him, the world quiet around us.
It feels like a place I could survive in.
Even if only for a little while.
I blink, shake my head, and keep moving. The day won’t wait for me to imagine a life that doesn’t exist yet.
By the time I make it to the doors of my first class, the fog’s thickened, curling around buildings and turning the campus into some ghosted version of itself.
My hood is up, headphones loud enough to drown out the laughter and chatter around me.
But even music can’t keep the thoughts from crawling back.
They all look like they belong, like the world hasn’t tried to chew them up and spit them out before breakfast. And for a second, I feel the familiar sting of not belonging—of being broken in ways I can’t even name to anyone.
I slip into the lecture hall late and slide into the last empty seat in the back. A few heads turn briefly, then go back to whatever they were doing.
Good.
Let them think I’m just another late student. Not the boy who’s survived things that hollow people out. Not the one whose heart is tangled up in someone he’s not supposed to love.
There’s the word.
Love.
Can I even love someone?
I don’t even like myself. So how can I love him?
I pull out my notebook, pen hovering over the blank page. The professor drones on about some economic theory I’ll never retain, and I focus hard enough to pretend I understand. My hand drifts to the side of the page, and I start doodling, small, tight letters: M-V.
I freeze.
Then I erase it quickly, but my mind’s already wandering to Miguel—what he’s doing, whether he’s thinking of me.
Anxiety curls in my stomach, tight as a fist. My pulse quickens, chest burning. I try to breathe through it.
In. Out. In. Out.
Count the breaths.
But the thoughts won’t stop… memories of cold floors, nights alone, of faces that don’t care, of being hungry and too scared to cry out.
I glance at my phone under the desk. No messages. Not that I expected any—he’s probably already at work, moving through his normal, everyday life.
The professor calls on someone else. I pretend to raise my hand once, then sink back into the seat.
I’m a ghost here.
Just going through the motions. I take notes that won’t help me. Laugh when someone cracks a joke. Smile when someone smiles at me. Pretending to be alive when inside, everything inside me frays.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know today will end like every other—classes, basketball, and then a shower with Miguel waiting at the end. A little warmth in a world that’s been cold for too long.
That thought keeps me moving, even if it doesn’t keep the panic from clawing at me between breaths.
Maybe tonight I’ll actually fall asleep with him.
The waiting room of the therapist smells like coffee and antiseptic.
Beige walls. Fake plants. A ticking clock that’s somehow louder than anything else.
I sit in the corner, backpack on my lap, legs bouncing like they’re trying to run away.
My hands grip the straps tight enough to leave marks on my palms.
“Caleb?”
The door opens, and Dr. Kaur’s voice pulls me out of the mental gymnastics. Calm, familiar, patient. I stand, nod, and follow her into the office.
It’s quiet in here. Comfortable. Soft lighting, bookshelves lined with things that smell faintly like paper and lavender. The kind of office you would want to escape in if hiding from the world were possible.
“Good to see you,” she says, gesturing to the chair across from her. “How have you been since last week?”
I shrug, not meeting her eyes. “Same.”
She leans back and steeples her fingers. “Same” can mean a lot of things. Sleep? Appetite? Anxiety?”
I laugh, dry and humorless. “Fine.”
Lie. Always lie.
The therapist sees through it anyway. I know she does.
She tilts her head. “Caleb, I want to talk about your childhood today. Just a little. Can you handle that?”
My stomach drops. Anxiety spikes. I want to nod, but my throat closes. Memories hover at the edges of my mind, like ghosts I’m not ready to invite in.
“I… I guess,” I murmur. Too quiet. I hope she didn’t hear the quiver in my voice.
“We don’t have to go far,” she nods gently. “Just whatever comes up naturally.”
I bite my lip. The office is silent. My own breathing sounds too loud in the space. I close my eyes for a second—and I’m five.
It starts with the ache of hunger. The kind that never goes away. The feelings of being ignored, of being too small. Too loud. Too much. My mother’s hand slapping my cheek for crying. The empty refrigerator. The cold kitchen floor.
I blink back the tears. The office is still here. Dr. Kaur’s is still in front of me. But I can’t shake the memory, the way it wraps around my ribcage and squeezes.
“Caleb?” she says, in a soft, careful way. “Look at me. You’re here now. You’re safe.”
I nod, hands shaking. I can feel the tears coming, the ones I’ve swallowed too many times to count.
“Tell me what you see.”
I hesitate.
The memory is sharp. Real. But she doesn’t push. She just waits.
Then I try.
I’m five.
The kitchen floor is cold under my bare feet. My stomach gnaws at itself, a hollow pain that won’t stop. I haven’t eaten in days—three, maybe four—but I’ve stopped counting because it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
The air smells sour. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Something burned. My mother’s boyfriend is yelling from the next room. I can’t make out the words, but the tone is enough. Fear tastes metallic in my mouth. My hands shake at my sides.
I cry quietly, small sobs I hope no one hears. That hope dies when my mother’s hand hits my cheek. The sting burns worse than the hunger bites. I press my hand to it anyway, trying to make it stop.
“You useless little shit,” she spits. “I should’ve never taken you with me when I left that asshole.”
That asshole being my biological father. Someone I don’t remember.
Does he think about me? Does he remember my name?
Her eyes are empty, distant. I remember thinking I must be invisible. Or maybe already gone.
I shuffle toward the fridge, desperate. Maybe something—anything—will be there. I open it. Nothing. Just condiments and a half-empty beer bottle. My stomach twists. I stare at the shelves, hoping for some miracle that never comes.
She grabs me by the shoulder, shoving me toward the hallway. “Shut up before he comes in here and gives you a reason to cry,” she hisses.
I stumble, knees scraping against the floor, but I keep my head down. Too small to fight back. Too scared to even scream.
The hallway smells like mildew and old carpet. I hear his footsteps somewhere above, but I don’t look toward the stairs. I don't want him to see. I don't want anyone to see.
I curl into a corner, press my face to the wall, and cry silently.
Hunger. Pain. Shame.
All tangled together until I can’t tell which one hurts more.
The ceiling feels low. The walls are closing in. I wish I could vanish. I wish someone would just take me away.
But they can’t.
They never could.
A hand on my shoulder.
Not hers.
Not now.
My eyes snap open, the office around me, the warm light, and Dr. Kaur’s soft voice pulling me back.
“Alright,” she says, gently. “You’re safe. You’re not five anymore.”
I shake, trying to breathe through it. I must have said some things while I was out of it, to where she knew how old I was in the flashback. The memory is still raw, fresh under my skin, but her words are a lifeline.
For a second, I allow myself to imagine a world where someone really could protect me. Where hunger and fear don’t rule me.
And then the present comes rushing back. My chest hurts. It feels like it's trying to crush itself from the inside out. My hands won't stop trembling.
But I'm alive and I'm here. Every breath is jagged and shallow, like I’ve been holding it under water for far too long.
“Caleb,” Dr. Kaur’s voice cuts through the haze, soft and steady. “Look at me. Focus on my voice. One… two… three. In… out…” She counts with me, slow and deliberate. Her fingers lightly touch my shoulder, grounding me, reminding me I’m not five anymore.
I blink. I force my eyes open. The office is still here. Her chair. The bookshelves. The lamp. Everything is still real. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Breathe,” she says. “Good. That’s really good, Caleb.”
I nod, even as the ghost of the memory brushes up against me. The shame, the hunger, the fear are still there, lurking, but the panic is backing off, ebbing like a tide I can finally outwait.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks gently. Her eyes are patient and unhurried, and I hate that I can’t find the words.
“No,” I whisper. The word barely escapes. Truthful, for once. “I don’t.”
She nods. “That’s fine. You don’t have to. Just… recognize that it’s not happening now. You survived it then, and you’re surviving now.”
I breathe.
One, two, three.
I can feel the room again. The warm light, the soft carpet under my socks, the weight of the pillow on my lap.
I am here.
It’s enough.
It’s not okay.
Not completely.
But it’s enough.
I lean back in the chair, letting the tension leave my shoulders in slow, shaky waves. I can still feel the ache under my ribs, the faint sting of old wounds, but for the first time today, I feel a fraction of control over it.
I don’t know how I’m going to live with all of this. But for now, I can breathe. And that, just that alone, is a start.
The office door clicks behind me as I step out, the cool afternoon air hitting my face like a splash of reality.
The fog has lifted slightly, leaving the campus quiet, with the distant sound of waves rolling in from the coast. I should feel lighter, but the ache under my ribs is still there, stubborn as ever.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, fingers shaking, and see Miguel’s name lighting up the screen. My chest tightens again, but this time it’s not fear.
Miguel
How’s my favorite mess doing?
I stare at the message, unsure if I’m ready to respond. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, typing and deleting. Finally, I manage a few words.
Caleb
Therapy sucked.
Miguel
Shit, that was today. You okay?
I exhale, fingers trembling.
Caleb
Not really.
Miguel
Do you want to talk about it? I can take my lunch now.
Caleb
No, it’s okay. I’ve got to get to my last class and then to practice.
Hesitating before I type out the next part.
Caleb
Uh… can I stay with you tonight?
His response is immediate.
Miguel
You never have to ask.
I want it to be your home too, Caleb. You have a set of keys for a reason, baby.
The words feel like a lifeline. I stare at them for a long moment, letting the comfort of his presence wash over me, even through text. He doesn’t demand anything from me, doesn’t push me. He just waits, patient and steady, exactly what I need.
Caleb
Okay, I’ll see you after practice then.
Miguel
Just remember to breathe.
I tuck the phone into my pocket and walk across campus, steps slow but deliberate. The fog rolls gently around the quad, softening the edges of the world. I don’t feel completely whole, not by a long shot. But I feel like I’m surviving instead of just existing.
I may be broken, I may be messy. But I’m not alone.