Chapter 22 Lottie
I make it to my first class without fully understanding how I got there.
One moment I was standing in my room, staring at nothing in particular, and the next I’m seated in the lecture hall with my coat half-open, my notebook flipped to a blank page, and my pen already poised between my fingers.
It feels like my body made the trip on its own while my mind stayed behind — suspended somewhere between memory and dread.
I glance down at myself as if to confirm I’m real. Boots laced. Sweater layered under my coat. Hair brushed and pulled back.
I don’t remember choosing any of it. I don’t remember locking my dorm door. I don’t remember walking across campus.
But I’m here.
And I’m not cold.
So apparently, some part of me is still functioning.
My first class is Anatomy in Motion. Usually, I love this class. Usually, I’m the one leaning forward in my seat, elbows braced on the desk, absorbing every word as if it matters — because it does. I write notes quickly and precisely, afraid that if I don’t capture every detail, it will vanish.
Today, the professor’s voice feels far away.
“…movement patterns influence muscle recruitment—”
“…tension radiates across connective tissue—”
“…posture changes everything…”
The words drift through me instead of landing. I scribble a few notes, but they’re fragmented — incomplete phrases, arrows pointing nowhere, half-formed thoughts. My handwriting looks unfamiliar, slanted and uneven, like it belongs to someone distracted.
Because I am distracted.
My mind keeps slipping.
It circles back to him again and again, replaying the same moments with relentless precision. The office. The air shifting. The tension stretching tight between us until something snapped.
I press my lips together and force my pen to move.
Focus. I need to focus.
My GPA isn’t negotiable. It’s not something I let slide. I’ve worked too hard — late nights, extra readings, office hours, research projects — all of it carefully built toward something bigger.
High marks aren’t optional for me. They’re expected. From everyone, but mostly from myself.
But no matter how firmly I try to anchor my attention, it keeps drifting like a boat cut loose from its dock.
If I don’t get control of this soon…If I can’t pull myself together…I’m going to end up with my first low marks ever.
Not just here. In all of my classes.
The thought twists sharply in my stomach.
I grip my pen tighter until my knuckles pale and try again — really try — to listen. I focus on the slide projected at the front of the room. I count the bullet points. I copy them down methodically.
But the second my concentration falters, even slightly, my mind snaps back to him.
To the office. To the charged silence. To the way something inside me shifted and never shifted back.
I inhale slowly through my nose. Hold it. Exhale.
Ground yourself. Feel the desk under your palms. The weight of the pen in your hand. The hum of the ventilation overhead. Act normal. Be normal.
But the truth settles quietly and terrifyingly beneath all of it:
I’m slipping. And I don’t know how to stop myself from falling.
My next class went a little better.
Not perfect. Not even close. But better.
I sit closer to the front. I force myself to track the professor’s movements, to follow the rhythm of their voice. I take structured notes. I underline key phrases. I write questions in the margins just to keep my brain engaged.
It feels like dragging my focus uphill.
But at least it’s moving.
When the bell rings, I let out a long, shaky breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
I should feel relieved. I should feel proud that I managed to hold myself together for at least one full lecture.
Instead, the sound of the bell only reminds me of what’s next.
I’m not ready to see him.
Not after what happened the last time we were alone. Not after the way everything inside me snapped like a stretched rubber band. Not after the way I moved without thinking — without hesitation, without fear.
I pack my things slowly, deliberately, as if moving too fast might make something inside me fracture completely. But the moment my thoughts drift — even for a heartbeat — the memories surge back in full color.
The heat of his body close to mine. The air between us humming, charged and alive. The brief, impossible softness of his lips.
My pulse jumps violently. My throat tightens.
I’ve been telling myself I’m just stressed. Just tired. Just overwhelmed.
But standing here with my notebook clutched against my chest like a shield, I finally allow the truth to surface.
I’m not ready to see him.
Not when I know I can’t touch him. Not when every nerve in my body remembers exactly how it felt when I did. Not when the distance between us feels less like space and more like a wound.
The realization settles heavily in my chest.
I want him.
The simplicity of it is almost brutal.
And wanting him is the one thing I am absolutely not allowed to do.
I leave the classroom on autopilot again, my notebook pressed to my chest as if it might hold me together. The hallway feels too bright, too loud, crowded with people laughing and shoving each other playfully, complaining about assignments, making weekend plans.
They look so normal. So steady. So untouched by whatever storm has taken root inside me.
I’m heading toward his class.
Every step tightens something low in my stomach, like a string being pulled tauter and tauter. My breaths turn shallow despite my attempts to control them.
The cold air outside hits my face as soon as I exit the building. It should shock me awake. It should sting. Instead, it barely registers — like I’m wrapped in thick cotton and the world can’t quite reach me.
My boots crunch over a thin layer of frost. The sky is pale and unforgiving. Students move in clusters around me, their conversations overlapping in easy noise.
I envy them.
Their simple thoughts. Their uncomplicated days. Their ability to walk into a room without feeling like everything inside them might detonate.
My mind is anything but simple.
With every yard I cross, the memories sharpen.
The way I crossed the space between us without thinking. The way I didn’t want to stop. The way he didn’t either.
I swallow hard.
I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to see him. I’m not ready to pretend I’m unaffected when every part of me remembers.
The Sciences building rises ahead of me — tall, familiar, suddenly imposing.
My pulse accelerates. My palms grow damp inside my gloves. Without meaning to, I slow down, as if my body is bargaining for a few more seconds of safety.
But time doesn’t pause. The world doesn’t wait.
And I can’t avoid this forever.
I push through the doors. Warm air rushes over me, carrying the faint scent of polished floors and old books. My heart is pounding now — fast enough that I’m certain I can feel it in my throat.
The hallway to his classroom feels impossibly long. Each step echoes. Each breath feels harder than the last. The closer I get, the tighter the coil inside me winds — until it almost aches.
I stop just outside the door.
For a moment, I simply stare at it.
Plain wood. Silver handle. Completely ordinary.
It offers no escape.
I inhale slowly, trying to steady myself.
I’m not ready.
I know I’m not ready.
But this is my class. My future. My responsibility.
Avoiding him won’t undo what happened. It won’t erase the pull. It won’t fix the fracture running quietly through me.
Running won’t solve this.
My hand trembles slightly as I reach forward.
I wrap my fingers around the handle. I can feel my pulse beating beneath my skin, wild and insistent.
One more breath.
Then I push the door open.