Chapter 9 #2
My chest squeezes. Not because he’s wrong. Because it’s my brother telling me he’s proud of something that should be normal, and I don’t know how to hold that without feeling like I’m five. I blink hard, take a sip of coffee, and force myself to exist in the moment instead of the feeling.
Across the shop, two girls are talking about a party from the weekend. A guy in a beanie taps his pen against his notebook like he’s in his own world.
Normal. Normal. Normal.
I open my laptop and make a to-do list so I don’t spiral.
· read chapter 3
· email advisor about major options
· laundry
· do not panic
The last one makes me huff a small laugh under my breath. I should add something about remembering to text Kai after his game, but I’m sure he’ll find the time to check in if I happen to forget.
Halfway through reading the syllabus, my phone buzzes again—not a text this time.
A calendar reminder.
Therapy.
I stare at the alert for a beat.
Virtual session at 3:00 p.m. every Tuesday and Thursday.
Sometimes it feels like an anchor. Sometimes it feels like proof I’m not normal. Today, it feels like relief. Because my brain is too loud, and I’m tired of carrying it by myself.
By the time I’m back in my dorm that evening, the day has done what it always does—worn me down in a slow, utterly draining way.
Nothing bad even happened. It’s just the weight of being perceived and the endless cycle of worrying what people might be thinking of me.
I take my therapy session at my desk with headphones on, knees pulled to my chest, and tell Dr. Reed about the barbecue. About leaving early. About how it still feels like a victory even though part of me thinks it shouldn’t.
She asks gentle questions. I answer carefully. I don’t mention Grayson.
I’m not sure why. Maybe because saying his name out loud would make the curiosity feel more real.
After therapy, I do laundry and hate every second of it. I eat dinner in the dining hall and spend the whole time pretending I don’t feel watched, even though no one is watching. Of course Kai somehow managed to sneak in a text between periods of his game to make sure I had gotten food.
When I get back to my room, it’s only seven, but my body feels wrecked. My brain, though, is not. I change into pajamas and crawl into bed with my book. Two pages. Three. Five. The words blur. The quiet swells until it’s not quiet at all—until it’s filled with thoughts I didn’t invite.
My phone sits on the nightstand. When I pick it up, I notice the time.
11:11 p.m.
Feels like even the clock is telling me to message him. It’s ridiculous that a stranger’s username has become something I look forward to.
It’s also true.
I click into the chat like I’m stepping into a familiar room.
And there he is.
NumberEleven — online.
My chest loosens immediately, and I type before I can talk myself out of it.
LittleTooMuch: You awake?
Three dots appear almost instantly.
NumberEleven: unfortunately. you?
I smile into my pillow.
LittleTooMuch: Unfortunately.
NumberEleven: we should start a club.
LittleTooMuch: I thought we already did.
NumberEleven: fair. our club is just suffering.
LittleTooMuch: And sarcasm.
NumberEleven: the healthiest coping skill.
I snort softly.
I hesitate, then type the truth I can handle.
LittleTooMuch: I talked to someone in real life today without being forced and didn’t combust.
A pause, then—
NumberEleven: that’s really good. proud of you.
My chest tightens. I stare at the screen, unsure what to say.
Then, because honesty is easier here, I type what I can’t say to anyone else.
LittleTooMuch: Sometimes being fine is harder than being not fine.
LittleTooMuch: When I’m not fine, at least it makes sense.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
His reply comes slower, like he’s choosing his words.
NumberEleven: i get that.
NumberEleven: fine can feel like walking on ice that might crack at any second.
My stomach flips. I stare at the line for too long. Walking on ice that might crack. It’s a metaphor. A good one. Plenty of people could think of that.
Still—my skin prickles.
I type anyway, forcing it light.
LittleTooMuch: Wow. Poetic.
NumberEleven: don’t spread rumors.
LittleTooMuch: Too late.
NumberEleven: i have a reputation to protect.
Warmth blooms in my chest again.
LittleTooMuch: Ok, ok. What’d you do today?
NumberEleven: couple lectures. tried to pretend i wasn’t half zombie.
I laugh quietly.
A beat.
NumberEleven: you doing ok on campus?
My fingers still.
I choose the truth that won’t make me feel exposed.
LittleTooMuch: It’s a lot, but I’m trying.
NumberEleven: trying counts.
My chest squeezes again—annoying and warm.
Curiosity curls up in me like a cat.
LittleTooMuch: You ever get curious about people? Like…you meet someone once and your brain won’t stop asking questions.
A beat—long enough that I regret sending it.
Then—
NumberEleven: yeah.
NumberEleven: curiosity is dangerous though.
My stomach tightens.
LittleTooMuch: Why dangerous?
Three dots appear, then pause.
NumberEleven: because sometimes you want answers you can’t afford to have.
The words land like a soft punch. I swallow and stare at the ceiling, phone glowing in the dark. Because I know what that feels like. Wanting something and being afraid of it at the same time.
I type the safest thing.
LittleTooMuch: Dramatic.
NumberEleven: accurate.
I huff a laugh.
Then I send, before I can stop myself:
LittleTooMuch: Goodnight, revolutionary.
His reply comes instantly.
NumberEleven: goodnight, little detective.
I set my phone down and let the quiet settle around me.
Somewhere on this campus, he’s doing the same thing.
Somewhere on this campus, there’s a boy who can’t sleep and makes jokes to survive it.
And today, I talked to a boy in real life who made the world feel a little less hard for just a second.
Two separate thoughts.
Two separate lives.
That’s what I tell myself as my eyes finally start to drift closed. Because if my brain tries to connect them, it becomes something else. Something I’m not ready to carry.
Not yet.