50. CORA
CORA
The first sign is the light. It fractures.
One second the sidewalk in front of me is normal—cracked concrete, the late afternoon sun stretching long shadows across campus—and the next, it’s like someone dragged a shard of glass across my vision. A thin, shimmering slice cuts through the center of everything I’m looking at.
I stop walking. No. No. Not now.
Students pass me while laughing, backpacks over their shoulders, heading to dinner or practice or anywhere that isn’t the slow-motion disaster currently unfolding inside my skull. The aura flickers again, brighter this time, zigzagging across my right eye like lightning that won’t stay still.
I fumble for my phone. Lane. If anyone can get me home fast, it’s him.
My thumb hovers over the screen but the words won’t stay still long enough to read. The letters slide apart, swimming in bright, jagged fragments.
I blink hard. The screen is almost impossible to decipher.
I tap where I think his name is and miss. The phone opens something else entirely—music, I think. I close it and try again. The aura blooms wider, a halo of blinding white static chewing through the middle of my vision.
“Come on,” I mutter, my hands suddenly clumsy and useless.
Lane. Brinn. Anyone.
I tap again and the phone vibrates in protest as I hit the wrong button for the third time. The icons split into two. Then three.
My stomach drops. I’m running out of time.
Panic flares—if the aura is this bad, the pain isn’t far behind. And when it hits, I won’t be walking anywhere.
I shove the phone back into my bag and start moving.
The path home blurs around the edges, the world narrowing to a tunnel of fractured light and dull gray shapes. My heart pounds harder with every step. The first pulse of pain begins behind my right temple, deep and heavy, like someone tapping my skull with a hammer.
By the time my house comes into view, the pain has grown teeth.
My hands shake as I jam my key into the lock. It takes three tries before the door opens and I stumble inside, kicking it closed behind me like the sunlight itself is chasing me.
I need the dark.
I drop my bag somewhere near the couch and stagger to my bedroom, pulling the curtains shut so hard the rod rattles against the wall. The room falls into soft shadow and I sag against the bed, pressing the heel of my hand into my eye.
The aura pulses as the pain starts. It radiates through my skull in waves, making my breath hitch. I squeeze my eyes shut but it doesn’t help. Nothing ever helps once it reaches this point.
“Okay,” I whisper through clenched teeth.
Routine. Just do the routine. I force myself to move.
Phone first. I squint at the screen and set an alarm for my exam in a few hours—my vision still fuzzy enough that it takes longer than it should. I was supposed to spend this time studying, reviewing the last few chapters, making sure everything was perfect. That’s clearly not going to happen.
Next come the meds.
My hands tremble as I twist open the bottle and swallow the pills dry. Then the ice cap from the freezer—so cold that it burns when I pull it over my head. Peppermint oil follows, the sharp scent filling the air as I rub it into my temples with slow, shaking fingers.
The nausea is already building.
My stomach flips hard and suddenly I’m sweating, a clammy heat that makes the room feel too small, too warm, too loud even though it’s silent.
I curl onto my side on the bed, pressing the ice against my forehead and willing the pain to dull.
Just sleep. Sleep usually helps.
The last thing I see before the migraine drags me under is the alarm glowing faintly on my phone.
Just a few hours. Plenty of time to wake up with residual pain. Plenty of time to get to the exam.
I wake up and my room is silent. Weird. I typically need an alarm after a migraine.
When I grab my phone, the time stares at me like a cruel joke.
I must’ve turned my alarm off while I was sleeping it off.
My heart stops. The exam is happening right now and I’m missing it.
The sharpest edge of my migraine is gone, but my head throbs when I jump out of bed, run down the stairs, and grab my bag.
Maybe I can still make it?
I sprint across campus, lungs burning, bag bounding on my back.
When I reach the building, students are already pouring out of the classroom. I check the time and I didn’t make it. I push through the doorway anyway, heading for my professor. She’s gathering papers into a neat stack.
“Professor Harris,” I call, my voice cracking.
She looks up, concern flickering across her face. “Cora?”
““I—I’m so sorry,” I manage. “I had a migraine. I set an alarm but I must’ve—” My throat tightens as the words trip over each other. “I just woke up. I came as fast as I could.”
She studies me for a long moment. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” she says gently.
Relief floods my chest.
“But the exam period has ended.”
The words land like a punch to the ribs.
“I know,” I reply quickly. “But I have chronic migraines. Sometimes they’re… disabling. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t even use my phone. I just… if there’s any way I could take it now—”
Her expression softens further, but her head shakes. “I understand this is frustrating,” she sympathizes. “But the syllabus clearly states there are no retakes for missed exams.”
My stomach drops.
“I’ve never missed an exam like this before,” I whisper. “I have a 4.0. I’ve never been late to anything.”
“I know; you’re an excellent student.”
“Then please,” I beg, the desperation slipping through before I can stop it. “This isn’t… this isn’t like me.”
She hesitates. “If you have a chronic medical condition,” she says carefully, “you should have accommodations through the university’s disability services office.” It comes out more like a question than a statement.
The words feel like they echo. Accommodations. Extra time. Flexible exam windows. The paperwork I always told myself I didn’t need because I could manage. My parents always said I was being stubborn, that needing help didn’t make me any less, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Because I always managed. That’s what I did. I found a way. Factored in extra time. Always seemed to make it work.
Until now.
“I—don’t,” I admit. “I don’t have accommodations. Please, without any points toward this, there’s no way I can even pass this class.”
Her shoulders drop and I know where this is going. “I’m afraid without that documentation, I can’t make any exceptions.”
The room feels suddenly small. Quiet. Impossible to be in.
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
I nod automatically, even though my chest feels like it’s collapsing inward. I turn before she can see the tears gathering in my eyes.
Outside the classroom, the hallway is almost empty.
My hands shake as I grip the strap of my backpack, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
What the fuck just happened?