Page 125 of Disarm
Miguel
Text me after therapy. Or if you want to ditch and run away to Mexico before then.
Caleb
You can’t bribe me with tacos before noon.
I’m weak willed and tacos are my kryptonite.
Miguel
Watch me.
I smile down at the screen like a dumbass as I walk across the quad. Students swarm in clumps—hoodies, backpacks, people on scooters weaving through like they have a death wish. The sky’s that washed-out winter blue, clouds thin enough to let the sun bully through just a little.
Somewhere in the middle of all that normal, my life rerouted yesterday.
I make it through my morning class on autopilot. Something about cognitive development, stages, Piaget… whatever. The words float in front of me like subtitles on a show I forgot to start from the beginning. I take notes more out of muscle memory than comprehension.
What sticks is the section on “secure attachment figures” and how a stable one changes kids’ brains.
My pen digs into the page until the letters gouge.
By the time my phone buzzes with the calendar alert for therapy, my knee’s been bouncing for ten straight minutes. I pack up, mumble something to Anderson about catching him later, and walk across campus to the counseling center.
The building looks the same as always, a boring beige rectangle, glass doors, a potted plant struggling in the corner of the lobby. Familiar in all the wrong ways.
“Caleb Burton?” Dana asks, even though I’ve been here enough that she knows me by now.
“Yeah.” I wipe my hands on my jeans. “Two o’clock with Dr. Kaur.”
“You’re all set,” she says, tapping something on her keyboard. “She’ll be out in a minute.”
I drop into one of the waiting room chairs. The art on the walls is aggressively neutral with landscapes, abstract shapes, and nothing with eyes. A girl across from me stares at the floor, earbuds in, foot jiggling. A guy near the window scrolls on his phone like he’s trying to tunnel through it.
We’re all here for different reasons.
We all look the same.
“Caleb?” Dr. Kaur’s voice comes from the doorway.
I look up.
She stands there in her usual uniform, black slacks, soft sweater, and hair in a low, loose braid. Her expression is calm and open. The little crease between her brows deepens when she takes in my face.
“Hey,” I manage, getting to my feet.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
“I’ve been worse?” I say, which is true. “Also better.”
She smiles slightly. “Let’s talk about that.”
I follow her down the hall to her office. It’s the same as always—warm, not clinical. Lamp instead of overhead light, bookshelf stuffed with more psychology than any one person should read, that damn framed print that says “Feelings are not facts” in pretty cursive.
I drop onto my spot on the couch. The cushion’s familiar under my thighs.
She sits in her chair, notebook balanced on her knee, pen poised but not threatening.
