Chapter 10 Harlow
HARLOW
By Wednesday morning, my brain has already decided we are behind.
Behind on homework, behind on adjusting, behind on learning how to exist on a campus where nobody warns you before they bump into you and say “sorry” like it’s punctuation instead of a whole interaction you’re supposed to respond to.
Behind on being normal.
Whatever that means.
I wake up before my alarm because my body loves betraying me and then lie there for ten minutes.
Get up.
No.
Get up anyway.
Fine.
My phone lights up on the nightstand.
A text from Kai.
Kai: breakfast?
I stare at it.
It shouldn’t make me feel anything.
It does.
It makes me feel fifteen in the worst way—monitored, measured, like my body is a problem that needs supervision. I know why he does it. I also know I’m allowed to hate it.
I type back the safest truth I can manage.
Harlow: Going to class. I’ll get something later.
Three dots appear for a second, then disappear.
Kai doesn’t reply. That’s new. Either he’s learning to back off or he’s spiraling in silence, which is objectively worse.
I sit up, swing my legs out of bed, and immediately regret existing because the dorm floor is cold, and the hallway outside my door is already loud. Some girls are talking about a tailgate. Someone is laughing like it’s their job. A door slams two rooms down, and my shoulders jump.
It makes me miss Wren even more. I know I could make new friends, but that’s a lot easier said than done. Even though it was a guy who completely broke my trust, it doesn’t make it any less complicated and difficult to let someone new in.
My mom pushed me to try to be social before coming here, which was obviously a futile attempt.
I pause with my hand on the doorknob and inhale slowly.
Breathe. Choose. Move.
The world doesn’t get quieter because I want it to, so I make myself smaller inside it and hope that works.
It usually doesn’t.
My first class is a discussion section, which is a cruel trick because “discussion” implies you’re supposed to talk. I sit in the back with my notebook open and my pens lined up like soldiers. The TA asks everyone to introduce themselves and share “something interesting.”
My stomach flips.
Interesting is subjective. Interesting is a trap.
When it’s my turn, I say the first true thing my brain can grab.
“I used to take classes online,” I blurt out. “So I’m…learning campus.”
The TA smiles like it’s adorable. “Great! Welcome.”
Someone across the circle says, “Oh my God, I wish I could do online classes. I hate people.”
A couple of students laugh.
I don’t.
Not because it isn’t funny, but because I can feel the difference between hating people and being afraid of them like a bruise under my skin.
After class, I escape before anyone can corner me into friendship.
Outside, the sun is warm and the air smells like eucalyptus again, which should feel soothing but doesn’t because campus still sounds like a thousand overlapping conversations.
My next lecture isn’t for another hour, which means I have time.
Time is dangerous, mainly because it allows my brain to be creative but also lets it wander into forbidden waters.
It seems to enjoy spending a lot of time on Grayson lately, which…I can’t say I hate.
I head toward the dining hall because my stomach is hollow and my brain is loud, and I’m trying to practice choosing discomfort instead of running from it.
That’s what therapy calls it.
Exposure.
Like I’m slowly teaching my nervous system that food won’t kill me and neither will other people.
The dining hall is a wall of sound. Trays clattering. Chairs scraping. A hundred different smells hitting me at once—grease, syrup, coffee, something sweet and artificial that makes my nose itch.
My body stiffens, and my mind automatically starts calculating all the different choices, calorie amounts, and outcomes that could happen.
Too many people, too many noises, too many food options.
I stand inside the entrance, frozen, watching the flow of students move around me like water around a rock. If I stand still long enough, I might disappear.
Unfortunately, I don’t.
Someone bumps my shoulder. “Sorry.”
I flinch and step forward automatically, like my feet are on autopilot. The breakfast station is complete and utter chaos, full of choices, which is the worst scenario as far as I’m concerned. Eggs, pancakes, waffles, oatmeal, cereal, fruit, yogurt, pastries, bagels, toast, sandwiches, smoothies—
Too many thoughts attack at once, and I grip my tote strap, trying to force my legs to move.
Pick something. Anything. Just pick. But the choices keep coming. I stare at the bagels because they’re familiar, safe.
Bagels aren’t a very calorie friendly food, but they became my go to when my stomach was desperate for carbs when I’d make it starve for too long. I was completely over saltine crackers, and bagels became my comfort, especially the plain ones.
I reach for the tongs.
My hand shakes. My fingers tighten. My body goes rigid.
I can’t.
I can’t do this today.
I should turn around. I should leave. I should call it a win that I walked in at all.
A voice behind me says, easy and low, “Too many options?”
My heart jumps like I’ve been caught doing something illegal.
I turn my head.
Grayson Bennett stands a few feet back, holding a tray with coffee and a banana, like he already made his choices and survived them.
Even in sweats and a hoodie, he looks…good. Stupid good.
It shouldn’t be legal for someone to apply minimal effort and make the rest of the male population look less than in comparison. It annoys me, but I do enjoy the view.
He nods toward the buffet line like he’s not seeing me frozen in place. Like he’s giving me an out instead of staring at the spiral.
“This place is basically a menu designed by my worst enemy,” he says.
My chest tightens in a way that’s too familiar.
I force my voice to work. “It’s…a lot.”
Grayson’s gaze flicks over my face—quick, not intrusive. Then he angles his body slightly away, giving me space like he’s doing it on purpose.
He lifts his tray a little. “I’m doing a bagel. Plain. Low drama.”
My throat tightens.
Bagel. Low drama.
He pauses like he’s waiting for me to decide, then adds, “Want me to grab you one too? No pressure. I’m already committing toast crimes.”
My brain stutters. Because he didn’t say you should eat. He didn’t say your brother will freak out. He didn’t say are you okay like I’m fragile glass. He gave me an option. A simple one. My fingers loosen around my tote strap.
I swallow hard. “Plain is fine.”
Grayson nods like it’s the most normal conversation in the world. “Plain is elite.”
He turns to the station, grabs the tongs, drops a plain bagel onto his tray—then another onto a small plate.
He doesn’t hand it to me.
He doesn’t watch me like it’s a test.
He sets it down on the counter near me and says, easy, “There. Bagel acquired. You can pretend you’re not being assaulted by options now.”
A laugh tries to escape my chest. It gets caught halfway. I manage a small huff instead.
Grayson’s mouth quirks. “That was almost a laugh.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t. You’re starting to sound like Weston.”
“I won’t,” he says immediately—serious, like he understands my rule. Then he goes light again. “You want cream cheese or butter? I’m team butter, but I respect all religions.”
Butter is safe. Butter is familiar. Butter is…scary on a bad day. My throat tightens. I stare at the butter packets like they’re radioactive. Grayson doesn’t stare at me. Doesn’t make it a thing. He just grabs two and sets them beside the bagel.
“Optional,” he says. “Like Weston’s opinions.”
The way he says Weston’s name makes me blink.
“You talk about him like he’s a disease,” I say, because sarcasm is safer than gratitude.
Grayson snorts. “He is a disease, but a lovable one.”
Something tiny loosens in my chest. I take the plate. My hands shake a little—but less than before.
“Thanks,” I say, quietly.
Grayson’s gaze flicks up, soft for half a second. “Yeah.”
Then he glances toward the exit. “I’ve got a meeting in five. If I’m late, Kai will do that calm-disappointment thing, and I’ll spiral.”
I blink. “Kai spirals you?”
“Kai spirals everyone,” Grayson says solemnly. “It’s a gift.”
My mouth twitches. Grayson notices. Files it. Doesn’t point.
He nods at my plate. “Eat here or take it with you. Whatever works.”
Whatever works. Not what’s best. Not what I should do. Just…whatever works.
My throat tightens because my brain keeps trying to interpret kindness as a trap.
I nod once. “Okay.”
Grayson shifts his tray and starts to move past, then pauses like he remembers something.
“Oh,” he adds, shrugging, “Kai’s going to be offended if he finds out I committed bagel crimes without him.”
My stomach flips.
“Kai doesn’t need to know,” I say too fast.
Grayson’s eyes flick to mine, amused. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Secret.
Safe.
My body goes still.
Grayson doesn’t seem to realize he just said something that made my pulse spike.
He offers a quick two-finger salute like Weston would, then turns and disappears into the crowd like he belongs here.
I stand there for a second longer than I should, holding the plate like it’s evidence.
Then I move to an empty table near the window—wall at my back, exit visible—and sit.
The bagel sits there like a challenge. My stomach twists. My brain whispers.
Too much. Too visible. Too late.
I squeeze my eyes shut for one second. Then I remember something I told a stranger last night.
I did eat something. I’m trying to count it as a win.
I open my eyes. I pick up the bagel. I take a bite.
Small. Careful.
My throat tightens, but I chew anyway.
I don’t cry.
I don’t run.
I just…eat.
It tastes like plain bread and stubbornness.
It tastes like a small victory.
My phone buzzes.
Kai.
Kai: want me to meet you for lunch later?
I stare at the text.
My fingers hover.
I type the truth that won’t start a war.