Page 230 of Disarm
I stare at the words. My eyes burn.
I imagine his face when he reads it. The worry. The immediateWhere are you? I’m coming right now,energy. The way his whole body will go tight with protective rage. The point is, he works his ass off, and my brain is already eating him alive.
Everyone is tired of my trauma, the thought whispers.
Dr. Kaur with her endless gentle homework.
Miguel, with his care-coded questions and his hands always hovering like he’s ready to catch me. He’d be better off with someone who isn’t a walking case study, another thought adds, so soft I almost miss it.
My thumb hits backspace until the text bubble is empty.
Instead, I type
Caleb
How’s your day?
I stare at that too, then lock my phone before I can send it.
Coward.
Or maybe I’m just a survivalist.
I push up from the step and force my legs to carry me back to the conference room. By the time I open the door, my face is back to neutral, the mask slipping into place without conscious effort.
Jason looks up. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say, sliding into my chair. “Let’s talk limitations.”
I makeit through the rest of the meeting and then through the presentation. I make it through an entire stats review sessionwhere the professor says “significance” so many times the word loses meaning.
I do not remember any of it.
My brain feels like a TV with three channels playing at once.
Channel One: He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
Channel Two: What if this is your shot to finally stop being “the traumatized one” and you blow it?
Channel Three: Everyone is going to get tired. They won’t say it, but they will. You’re too much work.
Martin catches me outside the lecture hall. “You look like ass,” he announces cheerfully. “Everything okay?”
“Thanks,” I say. “Love you too.”
He eyes me. “You good? Where’s your head at?”
“Seven,” I say automatically, then immediately hate myself for how easily it’s higher. It’s eight. Maybe nine in flashes.
Martin whistles low. “You gonna be good for the exam?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… preemptively mourning my GPA.”
He grins. “I’ll bring funeral flowers.”
We split off in different directions. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Miguel
