Chapter 21 Lottie
Lottie
I barely make it through class.
The second the bell rings, the sound slices through the fog in my head, and I’m on my feet before I fully register moving. My chair scrapes too loudly against the floor. A few people glance over. I pretend not to notice.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of my coat. They feel clumsy, oversized, like they don’t quite belong to me. Heat still lingers under my skin — a restless warmth that hasn’t faded since I left Hale’s office. No matter how many steady breaths I take, my pulse refuses to settle.
And beneath it all, faint but persistent, is the trace of him.
It clings to me like static — subtle, but impossible to ignore. Every time I shift, every time I inhale too deeply, it’s there again. Warm. Familiar. Disorienting.
During the lecture, my mind drifted constantly. I tried to focus on equations, on the scrape of chalk against the board, on the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. But every few seconds, the memory pushed through:
The way his body felt so close to mine.
The softness of his mouth.
The split second where everything tipped, and there was no ground beneath my feet.
It still feels unreal. Like something that happened in a dream I haven’t fully woken from.
Sandy lingers near the side of the room instead of heading straight for the door. She watches me with that quiet, razor-sharp look she gets when she senses something’s off. She doesn’t speak right away. She studies.
It makes my skin prickle.
It doesn’t take long.
“What’s going on, Lottie?” she asks finally, her voice low but steady. Not accusatory. Just certain. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve been off all class. You stared into space the whole time, and you completely ignored Dr. Harmon when he asked you a question.”
I freeze mid-zip.
“Dr. Harmon asked me something?”
She scoffs softly and folds her arms. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. He didn’t. But you would’ve known that if you were actually paying attention.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “That’s not like you. So… tell me.”
My heart thuds harder.
For a moment, my mind scrambles, flipping through excuses like flashcards. Headache. Family stuff. Stress. Anything small. Anything believable.
I can’t give her the truth. Not when I barely understand it myself.
“I’m just tired,” I say, clearing my throat. My voice sounds almost normal. Almost. “I went to bed late last night — later than I should have — and now I’m paying for it. That’s it.”
She studies me for a long, uncomfortable moment. I keep my face neutral. Calm. Steady. Meanwhile, my insides feel like they’re vibrating.
“You promise that’s it?” she asks.
I nod. “I promise you I’m tired.”
And that part isn’t a lie.
I am exhausted.
Exhausted from holding myself together.
Exhausted from pretending nothing is happening.
Exhausted from the way one person has managed to occupy so much space in my mind that everything else feels muted and distant.
Sandy doesn’t look fully convinced, but she nods slowly and starts packing up her things.
I exhale, slow and controlled.
I survived the class.
I survived her questions.
But the truth hums under my skin like a live wire:
I’m not just tired. I’m coming apart.
By the time Sandy turns away, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I let it out carefully and gather my things with deliberate slowness, as if any sudden movement might crack the thin shell of composure I’m balancing on.
The hallway outside is loud — laughter, footsteps, locker doors slamming — but it all feels muffled. Distant. Like I’m submerged underwater, and the world exists somewhere above me.
I keep my head down and pull my coat tighter as I head toward my dorm. The cold air outside bites immediately, sharp enough to sting my cheeks. Normally, it would shock me awake. Today, it barely makes a dent.
My thoughts are too loud.
Every step feels like I’m trying to outrun something right at my heels. But it stays with me. I never gain any distance.
By the time I reach my dorm hall, my fingers are numb, and my pulse still skips unpredictably in my chest. I push through the heavy doors, and warmth washes over me, thick and artificial.
It should help.
But it doesn’t.
I climb the stairs slowly, legs heavier than they should be. When I reach my room, I slip inside and shut the door behind me. The soft click feels louder than it should — final in a way that makes my chest tighten.
I drop my bag and lean back against the door.
My heart is still racing.
Like my body hasn’t realized the moment is over. Or maybe it has. And that’s the problem.
I peel off my coat and scarf and let them fall onto the chair. My hands are shaking again. I stare at them for a second, flexing my fingers, trying to will them steady.
I hate that I can’t control this.
I move through the room aimlessly, reaching for small tasks to anchor myself. I straighten the blankets on my bed. I align the stack of books on my desk. I open the window for a few seconds and let freezing air flood in before slamming it shut again.
None of it works.
My mind keeps circling back.
The air in his office.
The shift in his expression.
The moment something inside me snapped, and I crossed the space between us without thinking.
The way he looked at me. Like he was losing control, too.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to push the memory away before it finishes replaying.
I need to calm down. I need to breathe. I need control.
But beneath all of that, a quiet, relentless whisper persists:
I don’t know how.
Not when he’s still in my head. Not when I can still feel the ghost of his presence against my skin. Not when every part of me is humming like I’m standing too close to something powerful and magnetic and dangerous.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, elbows braced on my knees, and force my breathing into something slow and measured.
I survived the day.
Barely.
But I have no idea how I’m supposed to survive the rest of them.
I don’t remember Tuesday. It exists simply as hours slipping past without weight or detail, like my mind refused to record anything that didn’t revolve around him. When I wake again and check the time, the realization settles heavily in my chest.
Wednesday.
I’m not ready. Not ready to see him again. Not ready to feel the shift in the air when he walks into a room. Not ready to pretend I’m unaffected when every nerve in my body says otherwise.
I lie there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, bracing myself before I even move.
Today I have two other classes. Classes that should ground me. Anchor me. Give me something solid to focus on.
But even as I think it, I know it’s wishful.
Nothing has been enough lately.
I push the blankets back and head to the bathroom. Steam fills the room as the shower runs. I step beneath the spray and let hot water cascade over my skin.
I barely feel it.
My hands move on autopilot — shampoo, rinse, soap, rinse — while my thoughts spin in tight, relentless circles. Every attempt to redirect my mind collapses back into the same place.
His scent. The intensity in his eyes. The way my body reacted before I could think.
It feels like my brain has been rewired to orbit him.
When I step out and wrap a towel around myself, the mirror fogs slowly. I wipe a circle clear and look at my reflection.
I look tired. Not just sleepy — strained. Like someone carrying a secret too heavy to hold upright.
And still, every path in my mind leads back to him. Every breath echoes that moment in his office. Every heartbeat feels tied to the edge we almost went over.
If this keeps up...If I can’t regain control…I might have to give up the TA position.
The thought lands hard — sharp and immediate. That role is everything I’ve worked toward. Late nights. Extra research. Proving myself over and over.
Walking away would feel like losing a piece of my future.
But if being near him keeps unraveling me like this…If I can’t think clearly. If I can’t trust myself.
I swallow.
I need another solution.
Something that doesn’t involve running. Something that doesn’t mean sacrificing everything I’ve earned.
But standing in my bathroom, hair half-dry, heart racing for reasons I can’t voice out loud…
I don’t know what that solution is.
And that uncertainty might be the most frightening part of all.