Page 240 of Disarm
I stand in the weird middle of the parking lot, keys in one hand, phone in the other, feeling like this is bigger than “text or don’t text.”
“Okay,” I say under my breath. “Net-thinking.”
I open his thread.
Miguel
Therapy done. Dr. O says I’m not allowed to be God anymore, so you’re officially on your own with stats.
How’s it going?
I stare for a second, then hit send. No “volume?” No “are you safe?” Just an opening.
The three dots don’t appear. I blow out a breath, slide my phone into my pocket, and head for the truck.
He’s probably studying, I tell myself. For the first time in a long time, the thought doesn’t come with a surge of panic.
It just feels… true.
Somewhere, miles away, a glass I can’t see is straining.
I drive home, humming along to whatever song the radio throws at me, feeling almost—dangerously—hopeful.
FORTY-THREE
CALEB
It’s like the day starts in grayscale.
Miguel leaves for work with his usual kiss to my forehead and a dumb joke about the Coast Guard and hot dogs that resemble dicks. The door closes behind him, his truck rumbles away.
Silence pours in like water under a door. I stand in the middle of the living room, keys in one hand, backpack in the other, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do next.
Class.
Study group.
Practice.
Normal shit.
My brain feels like someone’s taken a playlist and hit shuffle on all the worst tracks. The dream. The lecture. The call. The words “he died” were stitched under everything like a fucked-up backing vocal. I set my keys on the hook. Put my backpack by the couch. Pick it back up again because that’s what a functioning person would do.
“Okay,” I tell myself, out loud. My voice sounds wrong in the quiet. “You’re going to campus. You’re going to pretend to be a human. You can fall apart later.”
The safety plan on the fridge catches my eye. It’s held up with a magnet shaped like a basketball. Miguel’s handwriting in the margins where he added jokes and hearts.
When the volume is 8–10:
– Tell someone. Not just in your head. Out loud.
– Get in the same room as a person.
– No alcohol. No driving long distances alone.
– If you’re thinking about not wanting to be alive, call Dr. K, tell Miguel, or call the student crisis line. No negotiating.
I stare at the paper for so long the letters blur.
