Page 84 of What We Knew Then
I shove the phone back into my bag and start moving.
The path home blurs around the edges, the world narrowing to a tunnel of fractured light and dull gray shapes. My heart pounds harder with every step. The first pulse of pain begins behind my right temple, deep and heavy, like someone tapping my skull with a hammer.
By the time my house comes into view, the pain has grown teeth.
My hands shake as I jam my key into the lock. It takes three tries before the door opens and I stumble inside, kicking it closed behind me like the sunlight itself is chasing me.
I need the dark.
I drop my bag somewhere near the couch and stagger to my bedroom, pulling the curtains shut so hard the rod rattles against the wall. The room falls into soft shadow and I sag against the bed, pressing the heel of my hand into my eye.
The aura pulses as the pain starts. It radiates through my skull in waves, making my breath hitch. I squeeze my eyes shut but it doesn’t help. Nothing ever helps once it reaches this point.
“Okay,” I whisper through clenched teeth.
Routine. Just do the routine. I force myself to move.
Phone first. I squint at the screen and set an alarm for my exam in a few hours—my vision still fuzzy enough that it takes longer than it should. I was supposed to spend this time studying, reviewing the last few chapters, making sure everything was perfect. That’s clearly not going to happen.
Next come the meds.
My hands tremble as I twist open the bottle and swallow the pills dry. Then the ice cap from the freezer—so cold that it burns when I pull it over my head. Peppermint oil follows, the sharp scent filling the air as I rub it into my temples with slow, shaking fingers.
The nausea is already building.
My stomach flips hard and suddenly I’m sweating, a clammy heat that makes the room feel too small, too warm, too loud even though it’s silent.
I curl onto my side on the bed, pressing the ice against my forehead and willing the pain to dull.
Just sleep. Sleep usually helps.
The last thing I see before the migraine drags me under is the alarm glowing faintly on my phone.
Just a few hours. Plenty of time to wake up with residual pain. Plenty of time to get to the exam.
Iwakeupandmy room is silent. Weird. I typically need an alarm after a migraine.
When I grab my phone, the time stares at me like a cruel joke. I must’ve turned my alarm off while I was sleeping it off. My heart stops. The exam is happening right now and I’m missing it. The sharpest edge of my migraine is gone, but my head throbs when I jump out of bed, run down the stairs, and grab my bag.
Maybe I can still make it?
I sprint across campus, lungs burning, bag bounding on my back.
When I reach the building, students are already pouring out of the classroom. I check the time and I didn’t make it. I push through the doorway anyway, heading for my professor. She’s gathering papers into a neat stack.
“Professor Harris,” I call, my voice cracking.
She looks up, concern flickering across her face. “Cora?”
““I—I’m so sorry,” I manage. “I had a migraine. I set an alarm but I must’ve—” My throat tightens as the words trip over each other. “I just woke up. I came as fast as I could.”
She studies me for a long moment. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” she says gently.
Relief floods my chest.
“But the exam period has ended.”
The words land like a punch to the ribs.
