Page 65 of The Long Way Home
So I stay here on the steps, my arms wrapped around the box, the paper still clutched in my hand. And for just a moment, I let myself believe that maybe someone sees me clearly. Maybe I’m ready to find someone else who will treat me better.
Chapter Fifteen
RACHEL
Ten Years Ago
College Sophomore Year
“Fuck, I’m never going to get this.” I let out a sharp breath that empties my chest. My eyes throb, dull pulses behind my lids begging me to close them. Instead, I take another swig of my terrible, now-cold coffee and wince.
My stomach growls for the fifth time, loud enough that the girl at the next table lifts her head.
“I know, you’re hungry,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my abdomen. “I get it.”
But I need to commit this to memory before I break for food.
The second floor of the library is quieter than usual, even for finals week. A hushed kind of pressure hangs in the air, like the whole building is holding its breath. The overhead fluorescent buzzes with a steady whine, flickering in the corner, one moment away from giving up. I feel similar.
Someone coughs a few aisles over. Pages turn. Keyboards clack in slow, staccato rhythms. The HVAC unit groans to life and pushes a breath of stale air across the sociology stacks. The smell of dust and academic stress clings to everything.
I’m camped in my usual hideout, the corner booth behind the sociology section, sitting cross-legged with my back curved and one foot falling asleep. Around me are open notebooks, highlighters scattered like confetti, granola bar wrappers that crunch when I shift, and a tower of flashcards listing facts I can’t seem to retain no matter how hard I try to. My laptop is perched precariously on the table’s edge, casting a ghostly blue light across my notes and the bruised circles under my eyes.
My brain is mush, but I can’t leave yet.
Biopsychology used to feel magical. Neurons, neurotransmitters, synaptic pruning—it felt like unlocking the wiring behind human behavior. Nine hours of cramming later, and I think it might be trying to kill me. I can’t remember if the hippocampus consolidates memory or if the amygdala does. Or both? Maybe neither?
I drag my highlighter across the same line twice and realize halfway through, I haven’t read a word.
Focus, Rachel.
The hypothalamus regulates hunger, thirst, body temperature, and circadian rhythms.
I stare at the page like it might bite back at me. At this point, I might welcome being bitten if it meant I could feel something other than exhaustion.
Somewhere in the back of my brain, Professor Letman’s voice whispers—dry, measured, perpetually disappointed. He could lull someone to sleep even while explaining how the limbic system functions.
I flip to a fresh stack of flashcards. My own handwriting glares up at me. I don’t even remember writing these:
Broca’s Area – Speech production
Wernicke’s Area – Language comprehension
Temporal Lobe – Auditory info & memory
Each one has a tiny doodle of a brain with the area shaded in and labeled. I stare at them blankly, twirling a pen between my fingers. It slips, drops onto the notebook, and rolls to the edge of the table.
I rub my eyes with both hands, pressing hard enough to see stars. God, I want one of those blackout sleep masks and a week-long nap.
This exam might actually kill me.
Last week spun by in a blur. Kinesiology on Monday, Anatomy and Physiology on Wednesday, and a skills check on Friday, where I had to demonstrate joint mobilizations in front of our TA, who looked like she could snap me in half with a single lunge. This week, I’ve spent more time in the library than in my own bed. Flashcards, muscle groups, gait cycle phases. My brain’s fried. My body’s toast.
Only Biopsych and Medical Ethics are left. Then it’s officially summer. Not just any summer—the summer.
Margo and I made a list of plans. Beach days, road trips, nights on the roof with bad wine and better playlists. We keep calling it our “last real summer” before everything gets serious. She is determined to soak up every second with Josh before he starts his grown-up job in the city this fall.
I don’t mind being around them. Most times, it doesn’t feel like third-wheeling. Typically, that’s because Rhett tags along too. We’ve formed this weird little quartet with impromptu dinners and movie marathons that end with all of us passed out on the couch.
