Chapter 27 Lottie
Lottie
I leave Professor Hale’s office breathing as if I’ve just run a mile in winter air.
My pulse is everywhere — in my throat, in my wrists, hammering behind my eyes. The hallway feels too bright, too exposed. I can’t believe what I almost did in there. What I almost let happen.
He stumbled.
That’s all it was.
One careless misstep, one moment of imbalance — and when he ended up bent over his desk like that, something inside me snapped tight.
I almost threw caution to the wind. Almost said fuck the rules, fuck the consequences, fuck everything that isn’t him.
My hand finds the hallway wall before my knees can give out. Cool cinderblock presses against my palm, grounding me. I focus on the texture — the grit beneath the paint, the faint chill that seeps into my skin.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Each inhale scrapes against my chest like I swallowed frost. My fingers tremble where they brace me upright. Students pass without really seeing me, absorbed in their own conversations, their own lives. The world continues as if nothing just detonated inside my ribcage.
I almost crossed a line I can’t uncross. A line he’s been killing himself to protect.
That’s the part that twists something sharp inside me.
He’s been so careful. So deliberate. Every public meeting. Every measured step backward. Every door left open.
And I nearly tore all of it down because instinct roared louder than reason.
When my breathing steadies — or at least slows enough that I won’t collapse — I push off the wall and head toward Chemistry.
The walk feels endless. Like the hallway has stretched itself thin just to test me. My shoes echo too loudly against the tile. I smooth my hair back, press my lips together, and force my expression into something neutral before stepping into the classroom.
Dr. Harmon glances up mid-sentence. I offer a polite, blank smile — practiced, empty — and he nods, already turning back to the board. I’m only a couple of minutes late. No one cares.
I slide into my seat beside Sandy.
She notices immediately.
Her brows knit together, eyes scanning my face with unsettling precision. Searching for cracks.
I shake my head once. Small. Tight.
Don’t ask.
Because I don’t have the language for what just happened.
And even if I did, I wouldn’t use it.
Some things are too dangerous to say out loud.
I stare down at my notebook. My pen hovers above the page, unmoving. My mind is still in that office — the sound of the door slamming shut, the heat of him beneath my palms, the way his voice broke when he said my name.
There’s something about that room. Something about being alone in there with him.
It makes my thoughts short-circuit.
And the worst, most terrifying truth is—I don’t want that feeling to disappear.
Class passes in fragments. Dr. Harmon’s voice turns into background noise, like it’s filtering through water. Words drift past me without landing. Chemical formulas blur into meaningless shapes.
My hand moves on autopilot, scribbling notes I won’t remember writing.
I’m still there.
Still feeling the way my body reacted before my mind could catch up. The way resistance felt like friction against something inevitable.
When the bell rings, I barely register it. Students rise in a rush — chairs scraping, backpacks zipping, laughter spilling into the hallway.
I stay seated.
Sandy doesn’t move either.
She sits beside me quietly, hands folded, patient in a way that makes my throat tighten. She’s giving me space, but she’s not leaving.
She’s waiting.
I keep staring at the desk.
If I open my mouth, I might say too much.
Eventually, she exhales softly.
“Lottie,” she says, gentle but steady, “you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
I nod automatically. The words float around me without fully sinking in.
She hesitates, then continues. “So… when are you going to tell me what’s going on? You’ve been somewhere else for weeks. Is it the person you mentioned before? The one you met that night?”
There’s curiosity there. But also concern. Fear of what the answer might be.
My throat tightens. I clear it, forcing myself fully back into the present.
“It’s nothing,” I say, aiming for casual. “At least right now. I’ll tell you when I know more.”
It sounds vague even to my own ears.
She studies me — really studies me — weighing whether to push.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” she says quietly. “Because I don’t like watching you drift like this.”
I manage a small smile. “Thank you for worrying. I’m okay. I promise.”
A small lie. Maybe a necessary one. But still a lie.
Because I won’t be okay until I understand what’s happening to me. Until I understand why keeping my hands off him feels like resisting gravity.
Why being near him makes my pulse stutter and my thoughts blur. Why resisting him feels like tearing something vital out of my own chest.
We gather our things and head into the hallway. The building buzzes with pre-break energy — students laughing about travel plans, complaining about finals, already mentally gone.
“What are you doing the rest of the day?” Sandy asks, bumping my shoulder lightly.
“Studying,” I sigh. “I’m so behind I feel like midterms are going to flatten me.”
She gasps dramatically. “Not Bookworm Lottie. The end times are here.”
I laugh and shove her gently. “I’m still human.”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Yeah… but you’ve been weird lately. Like you’re here, but you’re not.”
I grimace. “You noticed.”
"Anyone paying attention would.”
The words hit harder than she means them to.
I pivot before she can dig further. “So how are things with Sylvie?”
Her entire face lights up.
“Oh my god, so good,” she gushes. “We’re still figuring each other out, but we’ve gone on a bunch of dates. I think I’m ready to sleep with her.”
I bark out a laugh loud enough that a few heads turn. “God forbid you schedule it on your calendar.”
She swats my arm, laughing. “Hey, I like being prepared!”
I continue laughing as I ask, "Any special plans for Christmas vacation?"
She shrugs, "I think I'll ask Sylvie over, she might say no since she would have to meet my parents, but who knows!"
Her happiness is bright and uncomplicated. It fills the space between us easily. She’s moving forward — exploring, choosing, opening herself up to something new without hesitation.
It looks… freeing.
And beneath my laughter, something coils tight inside my chest.
Because while she steps forward without fear—I’m stuck.
Fighting instinct. Fighting longing. Fighting the pull toward someone I can’t have.
Someone I shouldn’t even want.
I keep smiling anyway.
Because she deserves joy without shadows. Because she doesn’t need to carry this weight of mine.
And because if I let myself come undone now, I’m not sure I’d know how to stitch myself back together again.