Page 58 of Disarm
You’re okay, Caleb. I’ve got you. Just breathe and let me be here with you. Even if it’s just words on a screen.
Those words are going to have to be enough for tonight.
The next morningstarts badly and keeps getting worse.
I sleep through my first alarm, the second one, and half of the third. When I finally open my eyes, sunlight’s already spilling through the blinds.I’m twenty minutes late to my first class.
Fuck.
Throwing on whatever’s clean—a pair of black joggers, a UCSC shirt and a grey crew neck sweater—jam a notebook into my bag, and sprint out the door. My head’s pounding, throat dry, and body lead-heavy from too little sleep. By the time I get to English Lit, the class is half over. Professor Thompson looks up when I slide into the back row, her expression gentle but concerned. She doesn’t say anything, which I am eternally grateful for.
I couldn’t handle being the center of attention right now.Frantic, I digthrough my bag for my essay, the one that was due today, and come up empty. My stomach drops.
It’s not there.
I know I printed it. I remember setting it on my desk last night.
On the pile of papers I sorted by class.
My chest starts to tighten. My vision goes a little fuzzy at the edges. I flip through my notebook again, hands shaking harder now.
Not there.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
The room feels too small. The voices around me are too loud.
“Caleb?”
I look up. Professor Thompson is watching me, concern deepening. “You okay?”
Nodding too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” My voice sounds high and wrong.
“Stay after class,” she says quietly. “We’ll talk.”
When everyone files out, she closes her laptop and gives me that careful, motherly look she does when she’s worried.
“You’ve been doing so well,” she says. “But you seem… off today. Are you okay?”
I force a smile. “Just tired. Travel day yesterday. The game.”
She nods slowly. “And the paper?”
“I’ll email it to you tonight,” I say automatically, even though I know I’ll have to rewrite the whole thing from scratch. “Sorry. It’s my fault. I printed it but I started cleaning and it got lost in the shuffle. I?—”
“Don’t apologize. Just take care of yourself, Caleb.”
I promise I will, but the words don’t mean anything.
Math is worse. I can’t focus on the formulas. The numbers blur on the page. When the professor calls on me, I give thewrong answer and everyone laughs, lightly, not cruelly but it still hits somewhere tender.
By Sociology, I’m running on fumes. I keep checking my phone between slides, waiting for Miguel to text.
Nothing.
Not even a good morning.
He’s working and has jobs to finish. He said he’d be busy this week.
