Chapter 14 Harlow
HARLOW
The worst part about almost-panicking in public isn’t the panic.
It’s the after.
The next morning, when your body is technically fine, but your brain replays the entire thing like a highlight reel you didn’t ask for. Like it’s collecting evidence for a trial called Reasons You Should Never Leave Your Dorm Again.
I wake up to sunlight and the distant sound of someone laughing in the hallway, and my first thought is:
Why are people awake?
My second thought is:
Oh my God. The party.
My third thought—because my brain loves piling on—is:
Grayson Bennett followed you outside like you were a stray cat that needed rescuing.
Which is not what happened. Not exactly. He didn’t rescue me. He didn’t try to fix it. He just…noticed. Offered air. Stood there like the world wasn’t asking anything of me. And somehow, that’s worse. Because it makes it harder to file him under people I can avoid.
I sit up slowly and press my palms into my eyes until little stars pop behind my lids.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
You’re okay.
You’re okay.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
A notification waits from my brother. Of course.
Kai: u alive
I stare at the text.
My first instinct is to roll my eyes because yes, obviously. My second instinct is to feel guilty because he only asks because he cares. My third instinct is to get irritated because I don’t want to be checked on like I’m a malfunctioning appliance.
I type back the bland truth.
Harlow: Alive.
The reply comes quickly.
Kai: you ok? how’d the party go?
Two options:
Lie and keep the peace.
Tell the truth and risk him showing up at my dorm with a full crisis plan.
I chose the third option, because I’m learning how to exist between extremes.
Harlow: I’m ok. Just tired.
A pause.
Then:
Kai: breakfast?
My stomach tightens.
Food is already a thing in my brain before I even sit up most days, like an alarm system that never learned how to shut off. Breakfast texts make it louder, even when they’re well-intentioned.
I type carefully.
Harlow: I’ll grab something later.
Another pause.
Kai: ok. just…let me know when you do.
Not a fight.
Not a lecture.
Just a request.
Progress, I guess.
I toss my phone onto the bed and force myself into motion before my brain can glue me here.
Shower. Teeth. Hoodie. Hair shoved into a half-decent situation.
I pause in front of the mirror longer than I mean to.
My eyes look tired. My face looks…fine. Normal, even.
Which is always the weirdest part. My body can be a war zone, and my reflection still looks like a girl who could go to class and laugh with her friends and eat a muffin without thinking about it.
Sometimes I hate her.
Sometimes I feel sorry for her.
Today, I just look away.
Campus in the morning is quieter—still crowded, still noisy, but softer around the edges. People move like they’re waking up too. The sun is warm, the air smells like eucalyptus, and for a few minutes, I can pretend I’m just another student walking to breakfast.
Breakfast.
My stomach twists.
I can feel yesterday’s version of myself in my bones—the frozen feet, the drowning feeling, the way choices can turn into a threat.
I remind myself of the bagel.
Plain. Low drama.
My brain tries to argue.
I ignore it.
Inside the dining hall, it’s not as loud as it was earlier in the week. Less bodies. Less clatter. Still too many options, but I keep my eyes forward and lock onto one plan.
A bagel. My safe food.
I grab a tray. I take one bagel. I take a banana because it feels like a small peace offering to my body. I don’t analyze whether that’s enough or too much or safe. I just do it.
I sit near the window, back to a wall, exit visible.
Control helps.
I take the first bite, and my chest tightens like my brain is ready to revolt again.
Then I chew anyway.
I keep chewing.
The revolution slows. It quiets. Not fully. But enough. Relief hits me—small but real—and it makes my throat tighten because I hate how big small victories feel.
My phone buzzes, but it’s not the name I’m expecting. In fact, it’s an unknown number.
Unknown Number: morning harlow!!! u alive???
I blink, beyond confused, then type back.
Harlow: Who is this?
Unknown Number: the greatest hockey player ever to grace the ice at pcu
Weston.
Harlow: How did you get my number?
Weston: well you see
Weston: i may have stolen it from your brother’s phone
Weston: he caught me but I promised to only use it in emergencies and there’s no take backs once I have it so
I can’t help but laugh at that.
Harlow: This doesn’t exactly scream “emergency” to me.
Weston: it is! i was checking for signs of life!
Weston: are you coming to skate again or are you abandoning me again like last night?
I snort quietly, then take another bite of the bagel like it will anchor me to reality.
Harlow: I’ll think about it.
Weston: THATS A YES! SECOND DATE IS A GO
I don’t even respond to that one, because Weston is Weston and will still be Weston even if I argue with him until I’m blue in the face.
Going back to my food, I finish about half of my bagel before I’m not interested, but it’s enough for now.
Enough is a win.
I text Kai the smallest truth.
Harlow: Ate a bagel.
He answers a minute later.
Kai: good. thank you.
No fireworks. No praise. No pressure.
Just…good.
My chest loosens an inch.
I make it to class early and spend the extra minutes staring at my notebook and pretending my heart isn’t still doing something annoying when I think about last night.
Not the noise.
Not the almost-panic.
The porch.
Grayson leaning against the siding like he belonged there. Like quiet was easy for him. Like he wasn’t trying to fix me or figure me out. Like he was just…there. I keep hearing his voice in my head. Low. Dry.
Normal is overrated.
I’m not trying to fix you.
My stomach flips.
The professor starts talking about cognitive distortions, and my brain immediately goes, Oh, I know those. I collect them.
All-or-nothing thinking. Catastrophizing. Mind reading. Emotional reasoning.
I take notes like a good student, but I can’t stop thinking about mind reading. Because that’s what I do with people. I watch. I catalog. I try to predict the rules so I don’t break them accidentally.
And Grayson Bennett is…confusing.
He’s polite, but not performative. He’s quiet, but not cold. He makes jokes, but he doesn’t use them like a weapon. He feels like a person who notices things and keeps them to himself. Which is both safe and terrifying.
After class, I decide coffee will fix my brain.
It won’t. But it’s cool and familiar, and it gives my hands something to do. The coffee shop is busy, but not dining-hall busy. I can handle it. I order the same drink I always order because decision fatigue is real, and my brain deserves fewer choices.
When my drink is ready, I turn—
And almost collide with a chest. A very solid chest.
I freeze.
Grayson.
He’s holding a coffee too, hoodie up, hair slightly messy like he ran his hand through it on purpose, eyes tired in that familiar way.
We both stop.
His gaze flicks over my face quickly—non-invasive—then softens by half a degree.
“Hey,” he says.
My throat tightens. “Hey.”
People shift around us. Someone bumps my shoulder, mutters sorry, keeps moving. Grayson steps half a pace to the side, creating space between us and the traffic like he’s done it a million times. It’s such a small thing.
It hits anyway.
“You…survived,” he says, his voice dry.
I blink. “The coffee shop?”
His mouth quirks. “The party.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I immediately want to say something sarcastic to cut the vulnerability.
Instead, the truth slips out.
“Barely.”
Grayson nods once, like he believes me. Like he saw.
He hesitates, then says, quieter, “You left fast.”
My chest tightens.
“I don’t like…” I search for words that don’t feel like surrender. “Noise.”
Grayson’s gaze holds mine for a beat. “Yeah. I figured.”
Not judgment. Not pity.
Just…observation.
That’s somehow worse than sympathy, because it makes me feel seen.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how hard I’m gripping my cup. Grayson’s eyes flick down to my hands, then back up. His voice stays light on purpose.
“You good now?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
It’s not entirely true. But it’s true enough.
He accepts it like it’s allowed to be enough.
Then his gaze shifts—past me, to the room, to the door—as if his body is doing that restless thing again.
Like he’s torn between staying and leaving.
Like he wants to keep talking and also knows he shouldn’t.
He clears his throat. “I should go. We’ve got an extra film day today since we have an away game coming up early in the week.”
My mouth twitches. “Of course you do.”
He gives me a look. “Don’t sound so thrilled for me.”
I shrug. “Film sounds…fun.”
Grayson snorts—brief, surprised—like I caught him off guard. Something warm moves in my chest. Then he shifts his coffee like he’s making a decision.
He says, sincerity in voice, “If Weston drags you to the rink again…you should go.”
I blink. “Why?”
Grayson’s mouth quirks, but the answer is quieter than his tone.
“Because you look better there,” he says. “Like your shoulders aren’t trying to crawl into your ears.”
My stomach flips.
Better.
Not fixed. Not cured.
Just…better.
He said it like it was normal. Like it was allowed.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, because that’s my favorite answer to anything that feels like a commitment.
Grayson nods once. “Okay.”
He takes a step back like he’s forcing himself to give space, not just physically.
Then, before he can walk away, I hear myself say too quickly, “Thanks.”
Grayson pauses. His gaze flicks to mine.
“For what?” he asks, like he genuinely doesn’t know. There are too many answers. For noticing. For giving me air without asking for a performance. For being quiet in a world that feels too loud.
I pick the smallest truth.
“For last night.”
Grayson holds my gaze for a beat, and something shifts in his expression—like he wants to say more and doesn’t. Like he’s being pulled in two directions and forcing himself to pick the one that won’t blow up.
He nods once.
“Yeah,” he says. “Anytime.”
And then he leaves, blending into the crowd with an ease that feels unfair.
I stand there for a second longer, staring at the spot where he was, my heart doing that thing again, where it’s almost giving itself a squeeze as if I’m about to go down a roller coaster.
Then I force myself to move. Because if I stand still, my brain starts building connections.
And connections are dangerous.
Pulling out my phone, I send Wren a message, telling her we need to set up a FaceTime date ASAP. There’s only so much you can talk to with boys and your brother, and I need a girl-to-girl debrief on everything I’m feeling in regard to a certain roommate of my brother’s.
Knowing she’s asleep for the night, I flip my phone over and grab my book instead, because I refuse to let my brain turn this into a math problem. Two pages. Three. The words blur. But my chest is quieter than it’s been in days, and for now, that counts.
I’m starting to suspect the scariest part isn’t that I’m too much.
It’s that I might be allowed to be exactly enough.