5 Zara #2
“Yeah.” His voice is rougher now. “I think of that every time you disappear into yourself and act like you’re a burden for existing.”
Guilt prickles under my skin, hot and itchy. “I don’t feel like a burden for existing,” I mutter.
“You sure act like you do.” His fingers drum once on the table, then stop.
He’s trying so hard to stay calm, it almost makes me feel bad.
“You keep apologizing for needing anything. For being tired. For having a brain that’s a dick sometimes.
You act like I’m doing you some giant favor by showing up. ”
I stare at the scratched surface of the table, picking at a divot with my nail.
“You’re not?” I ask, quieter now.
“No,” he answers immediately. “I’m not.”
His frustration leaks through on that last word. It doesn’t sound like he’s mad at me. It sounds like he’s mad at the situation, at the way my brain works, at the entire universe for wiring me like this.
Doesn’t make my stomach twist any less.
“I don’t like it when you look at me like I’m breaking,” I admit, words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I don’t want to be that girl. The one everyone has to tiptoe around.”
He exhales hard through his nose. “You are not that girl.”
“Stacey thinks I am.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately wish I could shove them back in.
His eyes flicker. “Stacey doesn’t know shit.”
“Still.” I shrug one shoulder. “She’s not the first person to call me ‘a lot.’”
“She called you obnoxious,” he corrects, voice dropping. “Which is bullshit, and we already talked about that.”
“We didn’t really talk. You snapped at her and then you showed up with candy and we watched a movie.”
He winces like the reminder physically hurts, and I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Look,” I turn to face him, eyes locked on his. “I appreciate that you… see things. I do. But I would also really appreciate it if you didn’t make me feel like I’m failing some mental health pop quiz every time I’m not in a good mood.”
He flinches again. That’s the third one.
I’m keeping track now.
“That’s not what I’m trying to do.” His voice is quieter, probably feeling guilty. “I just don’t want to miss it if you’re crashing.”
“I’m not crashing.” The words tumble out automatically. “I’m… dipping. Slightly.”
“Dipping,” he repeats, unimpressed.
“Yes.” I straighten in my seat and plaster on a smile that feels like bending metal. “And to prove it, I have plans.”
He squints at me suspiciously. “What kind of plans?”
“Fun ones.” I wiggle my brows. “I’m going to Sigma Tu’s party tonight.”
His stare goes flat.
“You’re what?"
“Going. To. A. Party.” I enunciate each word like I’m explaining math to a toddler. “You know? Big house. Loud music. Even worse decisions. It’s going to be great.”
“You hate frat parties.”
“I hate some frat parties,” I correct. “But I like loud music and free alcohol and people-watching, and I refuse to turn into some sad little cave goblin just because my brain had a mood swing.”
I’m underage, but it’s a frat party. Who really cares?
He doesn’t answer. His jaw just clenches, then unclenches. I can almost see him biting back all the things he wants to say.
“Come with me,” I push. “It’ll be fun. You can stand in the corner and judge everyone. It’s your favorite hobby.”
“I have other hobbies.”
“Name one that doesn’t involve wheels or hex keys.”
He glares. “You’re annoying.”
I point at his face. “There’s the Cass I know.”
He doesn’t take the bait.
“I don’t know if a frat party is the best idea for you right now,” he announces.
My hackles go up instantly. “Best idea for me?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, enlighten me.”
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s trying very hard not to yell at me in the middle of the commons.
“You’re tired,” he starts, going for the easy one first. “You’re low. Throwing yourself into a house full of drunk idiots who don’t know you is not self-care.”
“And sitting here talking about my feelings is self-care?” I ask, sweet and sharp. “News to me.”
His fingers curl on the table again, tendons standing out along his knuckles.
“I’m trying to make sure you don’t wake up tomorrow feeling worse,” he says through his teeth.
“Well, you’re doing a great job making me feel worse right now,” I fire back.
His eyes flash, hurt mingling with frustration. “That’s not what I’m trying to do, Zae.”
“I know,” I say, even though I don’t. Or I do and I hate it. “Which is why I’m telling you that I’m fine and I’m going to go to a stupid party to get out of my own head. You can either come with me or not. Up to you.”
Silence stretches.
He looks at me for a long second, eyes searching my face like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying or just stubborn. Spoiler: it’s both.
“Fine,” he says at last. The word comes out clipped, heavier than it should. “I’ll go.”
The little victory that tries to spark inside me dies pretty fast when I see the way his shoulders sit—tight, tense, not his usual cocky slouch.
“Great.” I force some cheer into my tone. “See? Problem solved.”
He doesn’t answer. Just pulls the earbud out of his ear and sets it on the table in front of me.
“I’ve gotta get to class,” he informs me suddenly. “You heading to yours soon?”
“Probably,” I respond, reaching for my earbud. “Gonna pretend to read a few more paragraphs first.”
He nods, pushes his chair back, and stands.
“Text me later,” he demands. “About times and… whatever.”
“Will do.”
He hesitates like he wants to say something else, then just turns and walks away.
No forehead kiss or dumb joke. No parting shot. Just silence and his back.
He’s not usually angry with me in that quiet way. That’s always reserved for other people.
Apparently today I made the cut.
We don’t talk the rest of the afternoon.
Some of that is logistics. We have different classes, different buildings, different corners of the campus to haunt. But some of it is just… me not reaching out.
Because every time I think about texting him, I hear his voice in my head telling me I’m pretending, and I don’t know how to explain that he’s right without feeling like I’m dumping everything on him again.
He has enough to deal with. A maybe-girlfriend who hates my existence, a brain full of anger he’s learning to manage, classes, life. He doesn’t need my low day piled on top.
By the time my last class ends, I’ve talked myself in circles and back out again. The only thing I’ve decided is that I’m still going to the party. If only out of sheer spite.
I’m digging in my bag for my dorm key when a familiar shape falls into step beside me.
Cass.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just walks with me, long strides matching mine, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Hey,” he finally says, eyes set ahead of us.
“Hey.” The word comes out too casual. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and refuse to look up at him yet.
We walk across the courtyard toward my building with the silence between us feeling oddly heavier than it did this morning.
He clears his throat. “You eat?”
Ah. Yes. Food.
“A sandwich.” I nod. “Relax. You trained me well.”
“Good,” he mutters.
We lapse back into quiet, watching students drift past us, laughing, shouting, shoving each other. It all feels far away. My brain keeps circling the same stupid thought:
He’s mad at me.
He’s mad at me.
You’re an idiot.
“So,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “You ready to watch me get drunk and make terrible life choices tonight?”
He side-eyes me, those dark eyes piercing into me. “You’re not getting drunk.”
“I might,” I counter. “I deserve it. I survived my first full week as a college student. That’s worth at least two shots.”
He doesn’t smile and I hate it.
“Come on,” I push, bumping my shoulder into his arm. “It’s going to be crazy. You love crazy.”
“I tolerate it,” he corrects.
“You thrive in it,” I counter with a smirk.
He snorts. It’s small, but I’ll take it.
“Besides,” I continue, “I need you there so some frat boy doesn’t kidnap me and sell my organs.”
“No one’s kidnapping you,” he says automatically, voice going hard in a way that makes me feel weirdly safe. “I’d kill them.”
“See?” I grin up at him. “That’s the spirit.”
He huffs out something that almost counts as a laugh, and I watch as his shoulders loosen a fraction. Relief trickles in slowly, so I keep going. If I stop talking, my brain will pick everything apart.
“You know they’re going to love you there, right? Tall, broody, looks like he hates everyone. That’s frat boy party girl catnip.”
“I do hate everyone,” he agrees.
“Except me,” I sing.
He glances down at me, eyes softening despite himself. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Except you.”
My heart does something stupid in my chest, so I cover it by making a face.
“Yikes.” I make a face. “Feelings before five p.m.? Disgusting.”
He nudges my arm with his elbow. “You started it.”
We reach the path that leads to my dorm, and I feel the clock ticking on this walk. There’s a part of me that wants to grab his sleeve and make him stop, make him talk, make him reassure me that he’s not actually mad. But I’m a coward, so I don’t.
“So,” I say instead, tone breezy, “since you’re coming to this circus with me, you’re obligated to help with pre-game prep.”
He raises a brow. “Which is?”