Page 87 of Office Hours
I stare at the message until the laptop screen times out, throwing the room into utter darkness.
I fumble for the touchpad, swipe, re-read the email as if the act might conjure an addendum, a P.S., anything. But it’s all there in the tone: the apology, the finality, the wall going up. The “Kind regards” lands like a knife.
My hands hover over the keyboard, itching to reply. I type “Thank you for your message” and delete it. I type “I understand, but—” and erase that too.
What I want to say is: I hate you for making me love you. I want to say: You’re a coward. I want to say: Why did you come to the library today? Why do you haunt the aisles like a memory I can’t shake? Why do you care enough to cut me out, but not enough to make me believe you ever cared at all?
I want to say: I don’t know how to want anything without you as the centerpiece.
But I just sit, the words dying before I can let them live.
The rain taps the window, a soft relentless Morse code. Somewhere, a siren rises and falls, then fades into silence. I can hear Andie’s gentle breathing from the other bed, a comfort and a sadness at once. She, at least, knows how to sleep.
I close the laptop. The screen goes black, and my reflection floats there, ghostly, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and damp. I look like I’m about to scream, or maybe beg.
I slide from my chair onto the bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin. The world shrinks to the four walls of this room, the faint glow of rain-dappled streetlights filtering through the blinds. I count the breaths until my heart slows, until I can almost pretend the email didn’t happen.
But it did.
And now, I’m left with the question I can’t answer, the one Andie posed and I still haven’t resolved: Do I want Liam back, knowing what it cost me the first time? Or do I want to be free, knowing that “free” is just another word for empty?
I stare at the ceiling, at the patterns the rain makes as it runs in rivers down the glass. I think about tomorrow, and the paper, and the way Dylan squeezed my hand in the library, as if to remind me that there are other options, other people, other lives.
But none of it feels true. Not yet.
I close my eyes, willing myself to sleep, but all I see is Liam’s face, the hollow sadness in it, the way his voice went soft when he said my name.
I try to picture a future without him, and I can’t.
For now, the only thing I know how to do is wait.
Wait for morning, wait for the next message, wait for the part of me that isn’t built out of need.
I roll onto my side and clutch the pillow, hard enough that my fingers ache.
Outside, the rain keeps falling, and the city drowns in its own white noise.
Inside, I listen to my own heart, hoping it will tell me what to do.
It doesn’t.
Not yet.
But maybe tomorrow.
20
TAKING THINGS INTO MY OWN HANDS
SIMONE
Ishould be relaxing because finals are finally over. It’s done. Andie and I wanted to party, but frankly were too exhausted, so we just went to bed after chowing down in the dorm cafeteria. But now, it’s almost midnight when I realize I’m not going to sleep. My brain has been running laps since finals ended—a weird, queasy freedom that makes me want to run until my legs give out, or else hide under the bed and not come out until next semester. The dorm room is dark except for the single desk lamp, which projects a warped circle of light onto the carpet, its glow picking out all the unevenness and dust that daylight hides.
I pace. I don’t even try to be quiet; Andie’s already asleep, and she could snooze through a bomb drill anyway. My bare feet make a whispery sound on the fake-wood floor, and I count steps to try to slow my breathing. It doesn’t work. Nothing works. I grab my phone off the radiator and check it for the thousandth time—no messages, no missed calls, just the mockery of a calendar notification: “Surgery tomorrow 7:30 AM - Hennepin Med Center.”
I hate the word surgery. I hate the word hospital even more. The thought of walking into that building—letting them put me under, cut into me, root around for broken bits like I’m a salvage car—makes my mouth taste like copper. I can already see the white tiles and smell the faint reek of disinfectant; I can already hear the mechanical beep of some distant monitor counting down the seconds of my life. I want to puke, or run, or hit something.
Instead, I sit on the edge of my bed in my comfy flannel pajamas (the ones with cartoon whales), knees clamped up to my chest, and rock back and forth, phone jammed in my fist. The room is cold. My teeth chatter. Or maybe it’s just nerves.
