Page 9 of Disarm
What the fuck even is normal?
The dorm mirror doesn’t lie. Red eyes. Bruised half-moons. Hair sticking up in every direction like I’ve been running my hands through it all night. I try not to linger at my reflection, it would be too cruel, teasing me for not being next to him in bed.
I tug the hood over my head and try to make myself invisible. I brush my teeth mechanically, staring at the mirror but not really seeing myself.
I imagine Miguel texting me again, asking if I’m alive. I imagine laughing at some stupid joke he’d make about basketball or my posture. But I don’t send anything.
I can’t.
Today is therapy day, and my mind is stuck in a loop of anxiety, so much so that my stomach hurts. The nausea creeps in, and I have to fight to keep the granola bar down.
By the time I grab my backpack and step out into the hall, the dorm feels colder than usual. The smell of cheap coffee wafts from the lounge, and I wonder if my roommate even slept at all.
I don’t care, as shitty as that sounds.I just want to get through today. Classes. Practice. Therapy.Anything that keeps me moving without falling apart completely.
The walk across campus is quiet. Fog curls around the streetlights like fingers, softening everything. I keep my head down, hoodie up, and headphones blasting some random playlist to keep the world at bay. I pass couples laughing, friends joking, and someone playing a guitar near the quad.
Normal people.
People who don’t have to pretend they’re okay every single second of every day.
I grip the straps of my backpack tighter. I’m not them. I never will be. And that thought makes the chest tighten worse, like someone’s sitting on my lungs. But I keep walking anyway, because stopping isn’t an option.
At the crosswalk, I glance up at the sky, gray and smothering, and for a second I imagine Miguel’s condo. Warm. Smelling like food. The faint trace of him still in the air. I imagine sitting there with him, the world quiet around us.
It feels like a place I could survive in.
Even if only for a little while.
I blink, shake my head, and keep moving. The day won’t wait for me to imagine a life that doesn’t exist yet.
By the timeI make it to the doors of my first class, the fog’s thickened, curling around buildings and turning the campus into some ghosted version of itself. My hood is up, headphones loud enough to drown out the laughter and chatter around me. But even music can’t keep the thoughts from crawling back.
They all look like they belong, like the world hasn’t tried to chew them up and spit them out before breakfast. And for a second, I feel the familiar sting of not belonging—of being broken in ways I can’t even name to anyone.
I slip into the lecture hall late and slide into the last empty seat in the back. A few heads turn briefly, then go back to whatever they were doing.
Good.
Let them think I’m just another late student. Not the boy who’s survived things that hollow people out. Not the one whose heart is tangled up in someone he’s not supposed to love.
There’s the word.
Love.
Can I even love someone?
I don’t even like myself. So how can I love him?
I pull out my notebook, pen hovering over the blank page. The professor drones on about some economic theory I’ll never retain, and I focus hard enough to pretend I understand. Myhand drifts to the side of the page, and I start doodling, small, tight letters: M-V.
I freeze.
Then I erase it quickly, but my mind’s already wandering to Miguel—what he’s doing, whether he’s thinking of me.
Anxiety curls in my stomach, tight as a fist. My pulse quickens, chest burning. I try to breathe through it.
In. Out. In. Out.
