Chapter 10 Harlow #2
Harlow: I’m in the dining hall now.
Three dots appear instantly.
Kai: ok. what’d you get?
My stomach tightens. I stare at the bagel like it might answer for me.
Then I type:
Harlow: Bagel.
A beat.
Kai: good.
My throat tightens again, but it lands softer this time—less like a hovering mother hen and more I see you fighting. I take another bite and look out the window at students moving across campus like it’s easy.
Maybe it can be.
Maybe not today.
But someday.
The rest of my day is classes and noise and pretending I know what I’m doing.
In my afternoon lecture, the professor talks about neural pathways and behavioral reinforcement, and I keep thinking about how my brain reinforces fear like it’s a hobby.
In the hallway after, I almost run into Weston. He’s walking backward, talking loudly, gesturing like he’s performing.
“And I’m just saying, if Coach thinks I’m going to stop chirping, he can—”
He sees me and grins so wide it’s almost alarming.
“HARLOW!”
I flinch—and he immediately lowers his volume, like he clocks it.
“Sorry,” he says, still smiling but quieter. “You okay?”
I blink. Weston Cooper—human chaos—just adjusted for me. What universe is this?
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, then correct myself because Dr. Reed would call me out. “I’m…okay.”
Weston nods like that’s a perfectly acceptable answer. “Good. Because I have a very important question.”
I brace. “No.”
Weston’s grin goes feral. “Do you hate me yet?”
I stare at him.
Then I say the honest thing. “Not yet.”
Weston clutches his heart. “A miracle.”
He leans in a little. “Bennett says you’re terrifying.”
My brows lift. “He said that?”
Weston nods enthusiastically. “Respectfully. Like ‘she could end me, and I’d apologize.’”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“That’s not—” I stop. “Weston, you lie.”
Weston gasps, offended. “I embellish. There’s a difference.”
I shake my head and step past him. Weston falls into step beside me like a golden retriever who decided we’re friends now.
“Rink Friday evening?” he asks. “Some of us do quiet laps before the world starts yelling.”
My stomach flips.
“Why?” I ask.
Weston shrugs. “Because skating is cool. And because Mercer hovers less when you have plans.”
“Weston,” I warn.
He lifts his hands. “Okay, okay. Not trying to be weird. I’m just saying—if you ever want to hang out with mostly normal people, we’re…mostly normal.”
Offers are the part I don’t know how to handle. Invitations. People acting like they want me around. My brain searches for the catch. There isn’t one. Weston is just…Weston.
I clear my throat. “I’ll…think about it.”
Weston’s grin brightens. “That’s basically a yes.”
“It’s literally not,” I mutter.
Weston points at me. “You’re funny. Bennett was right.”
My stomach does that stupid flip again.
“I have class,” I say and escape into the crowd before my face gives me away.
That night, my dorm is quiet in the way that makes my brain loud.
I shower. I do homework. I reread the same sentence fifteen times.
I keep thinking about the dining hall. About the bagel. About Grayson saying, “whatever works.” About the way he didn’t watch me. And the worst part is my brain keeps replaying his voice and comparing it to NumberEleven’s messages like I’m building a profile.
I stop myself.
That’s a dangerous game.
It’s also stupid. A thousand guys on campus could sound calm. A thousand guys could make jokes about menus being threats. It doesn’t mean anything.
At 11:02 p.m., I open the forum.
I don’t pretend I’m not going to.
And there he is.
NumberEleven — online.
Before I even get a chance to type, a message comes through.
NumberEleven: wednesday should be illegal.
I blink, then smile into my pillow.
LittleTooMuch: Agreed.
LittleTooMuch: Today was…hard.
A pause.
NumberEleven: talk or distraction?
My throat tightens.
I decide to be brave. Just a little.
LittleTooMuch: Food was hard again.
LittleTooMuch: But I did it anyway.
LittleTooMuch: I ate something even though my brain tried to start a riot.
Three dots appear immediately.
NumberEleven: i’m proud of you.
I exhale slow.
LittleTooMuch: Don’t make it a thing.
NumberEleven: i won’t.
NumberEleven: i’m just saying it.
Warmth hits my chest—annoying and real.
I type the truth.
LittleTooMuch: Someone helped me today without making it a thing.
LittleTooMuch: It was weird.
LittleTooMuch: And…good.
A pause.
NumberEleven: good. keep that person.
My stomach flips. Keep that person, like it’s possible. Like it’s allowed.
My fingers hover.
LittleTooMuch: He made it easier.
LittleTooMuch: He gave me fewer choices.
Three dots.
NumberEleven: that’s smart.
NumberEleven: too many choices feels like…drowning.
My breath catches. Not because it’s proof. Because it’s accurate. Because it’s how it feels.
My brain tries to sprint anyway, so I force humor like a leash.
LittleTooMuch: Are you stalking me?
NumberEleven: yes. i’m hiding in your vents.
I laugh—real this time, quiet into my pillow.
LittleTooMuch: Ew. Stop.
NumberEleven: fine. i’ll move to the ceiling fan.
I shake my head, smiling.
LittleTooMuch: Why are you like this?
NumberEleven: because you like it.
LittleTooMuch: I do not.
NumberEleven: liar.
My chest is warm. My brain is quieter than it’s been all day.
I type, softer.
LittleTooMuch: Thank you.
LittleTooMuch: For being…a constant I didn’t know I needed.
A long pause.
NumberEleven: anytime.
NumberEleven: i mean it.
I set my phone down.
I think about the dining hall. About Grayson Bennett and his quiet humor and his careful space.
I think about a stranger behind a username who makes me feel less alone at night.
I pick my phone back up and type:
LittleTooMuch: Goodnight, revolutionary.
NumberEleven: Goodnight, LittleTooMuch.
I let my eyes drift closed. My brain is still loud, but it’s a little less cruel.
And for now…
That counts.