5 Zara
I’m Fine, Really.
Sunday was uneventful, and before I know it, Monday creeps around and my alarm goes off way too early.
I grope blindly across my nightstand, trying to turn it off without opening my eyes, which goes about as well as you’d expect.
After smacking literally everything except my phone, I crack one eye open, swear under my breath, and finally shut the damn thing up.
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
Has that crack always been there?
I groan, knowing I should get up, but the mattress feels too good. It’s trying to seduce me with its warm sheets, to glue me here for the rest of eternity. And for a second, the idea doesn’t sound terrible.
Besides, if I disappeared for a day, the only person who’d actually notice is Cass, and that thought is the only thing that gets me moving. I don’t want to burden him any more than I already do.
I roll onto my side and stare at the wall instead. The faint glow of my digital clock tells me I’ve already lost five minutes to doing nothing.
Perfect. Just Perfect.
I look to my right, seeing Riley is still sleeping.
“Okay, Zara,” I mutter to myself, because nothing gets me going like having a conversation with myself. “Game plan.”
Step one: meds.
Step two: shower so you don’t smell like ass.
Step three: bribe yourself with overpriced coffee from the cute barista.
If I get through those, I’m allowed to question my life choices again later.
I force myself upright, limbs protesting like I ran a marathon in my sleep. The floorboard gives like I’m some massive elephant and not a fun-sized young woman. The squeak stirs Riley, and her eyes open, right to me.
“Your eight A.M. class is killing me, Zara. Killing me. Pick a better schedule next semester,” Riley complains before turning over and going back to sleep.
“Love you too, Riley,” I mutter sarcastically, hearing her soft snores pick back up.
Saturday night flickers through my head: Cass on my bed, movie playing, the stupid pile of candy he brought, his hand wrapped around mine. The way my chest stopped feeling like it was collapsing in on itself for a little while.
The kiss to my forehead.
Yup.
Heat creeps up my neck and I immediately shove the memory away like it bit me.
Nope. We’re not doing that this morning.
I shuffle to my desk, grab the medicine bottle, and shake one into my palm.
I swallow it dry and make a face when the chalky taste hits the back of my throat.
Then I stand there for a second, fingers still curled around the bottle, fighting the urge to crawl back into bed and pretend Monday doesn’t exist.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Cass:
Wake up. It’s Monday. Suffer with me.
Despite everything, my mouth twitches.
Two more follow almost immediately.
Cass:
If you’re still in bed I’m sending my mom a photo.
Cass:
She’ll ground you.
A breathy laugh slips out. I type with my thumbs while I walk toward my dresser.
Zara:
I’m awake. Calm down.
Cass:
Barely. I can feel it.
Cass:
Meet me before class?
I stare at that one for a second. Part of me wants to say no and crawl back under the covers and rot. But a bigger part of me knows exactly why I shouldn’t.
Zara:
Coffee cart first. Then maybe.
Cass:
I’ll take it.
I toss my phone onto the bed and dig out a pair of dark jeans, an oversized band tee, and the black hoodie that’s basically my emotional support blanket today. Hoodie = safety. People don’t bother you when your hood is on and your face is serious.
My shower’s quick, robotic. In, out, and done. By the time I’m dressed, I almost look like a functional person. I catch my reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. My smile doesn’t quite make it to my eyes.
Whatever. People don’t look that closely.
I slide my headphones on and cue up something soft. Piano, a little ambient noise, nothing with emotion or lyrics that will make me cry on the high notes. When I step out, campus is already buzzing and it’s not even eight in the morning.
People are scattered across the quad, talking, laughing, looking awake in a way I resent on a spiritual level. I keep my head down and aim myself at the coffee cart like it’s my salvation.
The barista smiles as I step up. “Hey, you’re back. Same as last time?”
I blink at him for a second before my brain catches up.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Large iced mocha. Please. With an extra shot of ‘I made a mistake going to college.’”
He laughs like I actually made a joke instead of accidentally revealing too much. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I pay, step aside, and wrap both hands around my cup when it’s done, soaking up the cold. The first sip barely touches the heaviness under my ribs, but at least it wakes my tongue up.
There’s ten minutes until my class starts so I shoot Cass a text as I head toward my building.
Zara:
Rain check? Class starts soon.
Cass:
Fine, but meet me at the commons after.
Cass:
It’s not a request
I breathe and remind myself it’s just one class.
I can do one class.
Class is fine, which almost makes it the problem. Nothing dramatic happens. No one says anything cruel. The professor talks and I take notes, but my hand is moving on autopilot. My brain keeps drifting back to Saturday, to Stacey’s voice in the hallway, to the way Cass’ face went tight afterward.
It even goes as far to drift to the way he kissed my forehead and called me perfect, like he genuinely believed it.
By the time I’m released, I feel hollowed out and overstuffed at the same time. My body’s here, but everything else feels muffled. Like someone wrapped my brain in cotton.
I head to the commons because that’s what I did between classes last week, and routine is good.
Routine is safe. Routine means Cass can find me easier.
I pick the table in the corner that overlooks half the room, drop my backpack onto the chair across from me, and slide into the other seat with my laptop open and my notebook out.
I stare at the screen for a long time, doing absolutely nothing except listening to the quiet piano hum softly in my ears through my earphones. Words swim in front of my eyes, but none of it sticks. I highlight one random line in my reading just to feel like I’ve done something.
It doesn’t help.
I’m halfway through constructing an elaborate daydream about faking my death and moving into the woods when my left ear suddenly goes silent. I blink and turn to see Cass sliding into the seat next to me, my earbud already between his fingers.
“Morning, Sunshine,” he greets, voice rough from not enough sleep. “Why do you look like someone killed your cat?”
“I don’t have a cat,” I answer, gripping my pencil tighter. “I’m just tired.”
He leans back in his chair, eyes roaming over my face in that too-close way he has. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, which is not his usual setting.
“What?” I ask, defensive already.
He tilts his head a little, like he’s analyzing me against his memory. “What are you listening—” he cuts himself off, answering his own question as he puts my earbud in. His gaze shifts to mine quickly.
“Music.”
“Zae.”
I roll my eyes and flick my laptop trackpad. “You’re so nosy.”
He taps the earbud. “You’re listening to sad piano.”
“So?”
“So you hate sad piano.” His brows knit together. “You said it makes you feel like you’re in a movie montage right before the character dies or loses someone.”
I did say that.
“It’s background noise.” I shrug, always pretending to be okay. “Don’t overthink it.”
His mouth presses into a line, because overthinking is exactly what Cass does.
“I’m not overthinking anything. You’re the one who shows up on a Monday with dead eyes and a funeral soundtrack.”
“Wow.” I arch a brow. “Harsh.”
“Truth,” he counters.
I snort, but my grip tightens just a little more on my pencil. I can feel him watching every micro-expression, cataloging it. It makes my skin itch.
He knows me too goddamn well.
“I’m fine.” I force lightness into my tone. “You can relax. No emergency today, I swear.”
He doesn’t relax.
“Your ‘fine’ voice is garbage,” he throws out just as easily. “You know that, right?”
“I didn’t realize there was a rating system.”
“There is. And you’re failing.”
“Cool,” I mutter. “Add it to my list of flaws. Right under ‘drinks too much caffeine’ and ‘friends with emotionally constipated skater boy.’”
His jaw ticks. “You’re seriously doing this?”
“Doing what?” I lean forward to write in my notebook, getting as far as one word.
“Pretending,” he answers, low.
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. “God, Cass. Not everything’s a crisis. I’m tired. That’s it.”
I really don’t know why I do this.
Why I don’t just tell him everything.
His hand curls into a fist on the table, then relaxes. He catches himself before slamming it, like he’s been practicing.
“Stop lying, Zae.” His hand’s still clenched tight into a fist. “I know you’re not fine.”
“It’s called being a college student,” I shoot back. “We’re all dead inside. Have you seen the pre-med kids? They look worse than me.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile but refuses.
“I’m serious.” His voice is low, eyes glued on me.
“So am I.” I set my pencil down and lean back, crossing my arms. “I took my meds. I slept. You checked up on me. You did your job.”
He flinches at that, just a little.
“That’s not a job,” he mutters quietly.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. I do. I also know your ‘I’m fine’ means ‘I’m barely holding on but please don’t look too close.’”
Something in my chest stutters, because he’s a hundred percent right.
Not that I’d tell him that.
“I’m having a low day,” I finally admit, voice flat. “It happens. I’ll deal with it. You don’t have to hover like I’m made of glass, about to break.”
He’s quiet for a second, jaw working. “I’m not hovering. I’m just not going to pretend I don’t see it.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want it to be seen,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “Ever think of that?”
The words hang between us a moment too long. He stiffens, knuckles going white.