Chapter 35 Caleb
THIRTY-FIVE
CALEB
By the time midterms are over, everything feels like it’s been put through a blender and poured back into my skull. Spring break is over and the season’s done. My last box of game-day socks is shoved in the back of my closet, right next to the duffel I swear I’m going to properly unpack “soon.”
Now it’s just… school.
Survive the last stretch, keep my GPA from tanking, and don’t have a nervous breakdown in the middle of the quad.
Low bar.
Totally reasonable.
Campus in late March has this weird, half-awake vibe.
People are wandering around in shorts like it’s summer, even though the wind still has teeth.
Fliers for end-of-year concerts are taped over old tutoring ads.
The basketball banners in the gym are starting to look less like “current season” and more like “archival footage.”
I’m in the library, where dreams go to die.
My laptop screen is a terrifying wall of tabs—one paper about developmental psych due Friday, one stats assignment I’ve opened and immediately minimized so I don’t cry, and one email tab where the subject line from Coach still glows bold:
NBA scout wants to keep eyes on you next season. Proud of you. Let’s talk about the off-season plan.
I take a long sip of the coffee Miguel shoved into my hand this morning when we were hauling ass out the door, instead of clicking anything.
“Earth to Burton,” Martin says, dropping into the chair across from me. He slides a snack-size bag of Hot Cheetos onto my notebook like an offering. “You look like you’re about to fight your laptop in single combat.”
“I am,” I say. “It started it.”
He snorts. “You good?”
I roll the question around. “Midterms are over,” I say. “I only cried over statistics once, and I did it in private, so that’s a win.”
“Proud of you, king.” He leans back, tipping his chair dangerously. “How’s the rest of the… ‘life is a complicated web of trauma, romance, and basketball’ thing?”
A week ago, that would’ve made something in my chest twist. Today, it just makes me huff out a laugh.
“We survived spring break,” I say. “There was a fancy dinner that ended with me having a panic attack in a bathroom and Miguel threatening to verbally body-slam my dad, but on the bright side, no one got disowned and we bailed early, like emotionally responsible adults.”
Martin whistles low. “Damn. You okay now?”
“Define ‘okay,’” I say. “I’m… not actively vibrating out of my skin. I’m talking about it in therapy.” I shrug. “Miggy and I are finding that sweet spot of living together part-time. Though he wants me there full-time, and I’m considering it.”
“Good.” He nods, then eyes my screen. “And the email from Coach that you keep side-eyeing like it owes you money?”
I grimace. “Scout from Oregon reached out again,” I admit. “Wants to ‘keep an eye on my development next season.’” I make jazz hands. “Doors. Opening. Or some shit.”
Martin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Bro. That’s huge.”
“I know.” My stomach flips. “It’s also… a lot. My brain’s still figuring out if it’s allowed to dream about the future or if that’s illegal.”
Studying me for a second. “You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he says. “You can just… let it be a nice thing. ‘Hey, someone noticed I don’t suck.’ That’s enough.”
“Wild concept,” I mutter. “Letting something be good without immediately turning it into a moral test.”
He points at me. “Exactly!”
We work in silence for a while—or, more accurately, Martin works and I stare at the same paragraph about attachment theory until the words stop meaning anything.
My phone buzzes.
Dad
I just want you to know I’m proud of how you’re handling everything. Let me know if you want to grab lunch this weekend. No pressure.
Older me, pre-all-of-this me, would’ve read it ten times, analyzed the punctuation, and tried to decipher if “everything” secretly meant “your entire life is a mistake, but I love you anyway.”
Now I read it once, feel the little ache, and set the phone face down.
“You okay?” Martin asks, without looking up.
I sigh. “Yeah,” I say. “Just… recalibrating. Again.” I show him the message.
“You don’t have to text him back right away,” he says. “You’re allowed to take the ‘no pressure’ part seriously.”
“Look at you,” I mutter. “Therapist in training.”
“I contain multitudes.” He grins. “Now finish that paragraph so we can go get burritos before my three p.m.”
I flip my phone back over and type a short reply.
Caleb
Thanks. Buried in work, but I appreciate it. Talk soon.
And then, for once, don’t open the message thread again.
I just… go back to work.
One paragraph at a time.
By the time I’m walking up the hill to Dr. Kaur’s office that afternoon, my brain feels like it’s done three different workouts. Physical exhaustion, mental exhaustion, and emotional exhaustion.
Trifecta.
The counseling building is its usual unthreatening beige. The waiting room smells like peppermint tea and recycled air. I check in, sit in the same chair I always do, and try not to pick my cuticles to bloody shreds.
“Caleb?” Dr. Kaur appears in the doorway, soft sweater, sensible shoes. Her eyes do that quick scan, like she’s taking my vital signs without a stethoscope.
I follow her back. Same office. Same couch. The same plant I’m 90% sure is fake but I don’t have the heart to ask.
“How are you coming into the room today?” she asks once we’ve settled.
I blow out a breath. “Uh… midterms fried, but still functioning? Also, spring break was a lot, but I didn’t spontaneously combust, so we’re calling that a net win.”
Her mouth quirks. “That’s quite a summary. Let’s unpack it. Start with what went better than you expected?”
I blink. That’s not where my brain wanted to go, but okay.
“I… spoke up,” I say slowly. “At dinner. When my dad asked Miguel and me not to hold hands in public around his colleagues. I didn’t…
fold myself in half and say, ‘whatever you want, Dad.’ I said, ‘no, actually, that sucks.’ And when it got to be too much, I left instead of swallowing it. ”
Her brows lift, impressed. “That’s a big shift from what you’ve told me about past patterns,” she says. “How did it feel in the moment?”
“Terrifying,” I admit. “Like I was ruining everything. But also… kind of… good? In a weird, nauseous way. Like my body was going, ‘oh, so this is what a boundary feels like.’”
She nods slowly. “Boundaries typically feel unfamiliar and uncomfortable at first,” she says. “Especially when you’re not used to setting them with people you love. It makes sense that both feelings were there.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I also had a mini freak-out in the bathroom,” I say. “Panic. Brain telling me I was disgusting and selfish and making his life harder for no reason. The usual highlight reel.”
“How did you handle it?” she asks.
I hesitate for half a second. “I… did some breathing,” I say. “The box-breathing thing. It helped. A little.” I clear my throat. “And then Miguel… helped ground me. In his own way.”
Her eyes are gentle, not prying. “Grounding through touch can be very effective,” she says. “Especially with someone you trust. The important part is that it felt consensual and helpful, not like something you were forcing yourself through.”
“It was…” I search for the right word. “It was like… my brain was a radio stuck on the ‘you’re a problem’ station, and he just… changed the channel long enough for me to breathe again. After, I didn’t feel… dirty. Or used. I felt… held. Cared for.”
She nods. “That distinction matters,” she says. “And I’m glad you’re paying attention to how it felt after, not just during.”
I let my shoulders drop a little. “We left the dinner,” I add. “Went back to the condo. My dad was… not thrilled. But we didn’t stay to make him more comfortable at the cost of me falling apart.”
“And how do you feel about that choice now?” she asks.
I think about it. About the hallway, and the look on Dad’s face, and the Uber ride home with Miguel’s shoulder solid against mine. “Proud,” I say, surprising myself with how true it feels. “And scared. But more proud.”
“That’s growth,” she says simply.
We talk through the rest of it—the boardwalk day, the breakfast where Miguel told his mom he wants to marry me someday. I leave out that exact detail, that one feels like mine to hoard for a minute. The way my body’s still bracing for some shoe to drop, even as things are… cautiously okay.
She asks about school and I tell her midterms were survivable, that I used grounding techniques before exams and actually went to office hours when I didn’t understand something instead of trying to brute-force it at three a.m. She looks genuinely delighted, like I turned in extra credit.
Then we talk about the part that’s harder to admit.
“There’s this… undertow,” I say, tracing a knot in the wooden arm of my chair with my thumb.
“Like… on the surface, things are okay. Good, even. But underneath, there’s this…
pull. Like my brain is singing the same old song quietly, ‘you don’t deserve this, it won’t last, you’re one mistake away from losing everything. ’”
She nods slowly. “And when that song gets louder, what tends to happen?”
“I grind harder,” I say immediately. “Practice, school, people-pleasing. Try to outrun it. Or I go the other way—shut down, check out, and disappear into Miguel’s hoodie for three days. I’m trying not to do either, but the urge is there.”
She studies me for a moment. “We’ve talked about safety plans before,” she says gently.
“About recognizing when you’re sliding from ‘stressed’ into ‘crisis.’ It might be time to revisit that.
Not because I think you’re on the brink right now, but because you’re describing that undertow.
And I’d rather we have a life jacket ready before you’re in the deep end. ”
I swallow and this is the part I’ve been worried about, the part my brain alternately wants to poke and to avoid eye contact with forever.