Page 150 of Impulse Control

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My chest tightened hard. “That’s not?—”

Mischa lifted a hand.

“No excuses,” she said. “No performance.”

I swallowed.

She leaned in just slightly, eyes intent. “Your work is becoming too polished,” she said. “And it is becoming empty. A computer could generate it.”

That slashed through every ounce of ego I’d ever possessed.

“You are too smart to not know the difference.”

The dread that rose in me was intimate. Immediate. “I’m really trying,” I whispered, and it was only rigid self-control that kept me from weeping. I would not cry.

Mischa’s expression softened by half a degree. “Then stop trying to survive everything,” she said. “Our greatest teacher is failure. You cannot succeed at everything. To attempt is to lose at all of it. Choose one thing to be honest about. Only one.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The words were locked up in my throat.

Mischa studied me for a long beat. Then she opened my folder and slid one print toward me—the café image. The beautiful emptiness. The controlled distance.

“You can make anything look like Paris,” she said quietly. “That is not a gift. That is a trick.”

I stared at it until my eyes stung. She closed the folder.

“Next week,” she said. “You bring me images that are not tricks. You bring me you.”

Then she opened the door and let me back into the hallway like I was someone she hadn’t given up on yet.

By the timeI left campus, my phone had three missed calls from Noor, two messages from Frankie, and one text from Dominic.

Dominic:

Five minutes still available today, Flash. I can call while I’m walking to court. No pressure. Just checking in.

My throat tightened.

Court.

Of course he was going to court.

Of course his life continued with stakes and structure and choices.

Of course he had five minutes for me.

I stared at the message for too long.

Then I typed.

Me:

I can do five minutes. Now.

My finger hovered.

And then my phone rang.

Not Dominic.

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