Two days back and I was already pretending like I hadn't unravelled.
I sat in the classroom like I hadn't missed a beat, like my body hadn't betrayed me, like I wasn't still carrying the residue of fever dreams and sharp memories. I'd slept, I'd eaten, and I'd even managed to laugh once. That had to count for something.
Ethan sat two rows behind me. I hadn't spoken to him since that night. Since the hoodie. Since the silence. We didn't need to talk, apparently. We just hovered near each other, like maybe the tension would fade if we ignored it long enough.
Professor walked in with her usual calm urgency.
"Before we begin today," she said, "a quick announcement. As part of your coursework this term, you'll be co-leading a workshop on mental health. In pairs. Two weeks from now."
A ripple of tired sighs moved across the room.
She continued, unfazed. "It'll be open to the campus. Informal, peer-led, grounded in real conversation. I expect reflection, research, and relevance. And I've selected the pairings myself."
I should've known.
"Alexis and Ethan," she said.
I didn't flinch. But something in my chest pulled tight.
I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I could feel the space around me shift, could feel the awareness of him pressing into the silence.
She moved on to the rest of the list, but her words blurred.
My pulse was steady, but my thoughts weren't.
A workshop. Mental health. Two weeks. Him and me. Us.
It made sense, I guess. We were both psych students.
And yet—something about it made me feel exposed again. Like my healing wasn't something I could keep quiet anymore. Like someone had decided my survival needed to be a lesson plan.
I wrote the date down in my notebook, even though I wouldn't forget it.
Two weeks.
Plenty of time to fall apart.
TWO DAYS LATER
The projector buzzed faintly above us as Ethan rubbed at the dry-erase board with a smudged sleeve. "Okay, so if we divide the workshop into four segments, we can hit anxiety, burnout, trauma-response, and coping strategies. That gives us twenty minutes per section."
"Too clinical," I said, without looking up from my notebook. "No one's showing up to hear terms they already heard in Intro to Psych. We need it to feel like a conversation, not a lecture."
Ethan blinked at me, marker in hand. "...Okay, but you literally just called the Psychopathology of life 'a comfort read' last week."
"That's different. That was me being a nerd. This is for people who hate being perceived."
He actually laughed at that. Not a smirk. Not a chuckle. A laugh. Deep and warm and—it made me look away too fast.
"Okay, fine," he said, sitting backwards in the chair like he owned it. "So let's conversational-ify it. Less psychobabble, more... real talk."
I tapped my pen against my notebook. "We could start with anonymous confessions. Like, index cards or an online form. Stuff people want to say but are too afraid to."
"Oooh," he nodded, eyes lighting up. "Yes. Like, 'I cried in the library bathroom during finals' energy."
"Exactly."
A knock on the door made us both jump.
It was Amelia. Carrying four coffees like a caffeine-dealing queen.
"Look alive, trauma babies," she said, kicking the door shut behind her. "I brought emotional support liquids."
Behind her, Jhonathan strolled in like a warm breeze in a cardigan. "Hope I'm not late."
"Nope," Ethan said, gesturing at the board. "We've only just started fighting about tone."
Jhonathan took the seat next to Amelia. "Good. Academic conflict fuels creativity."
Amelia reached over and accidentally knocked Ethan's pen off the desk. It rolled dramatically, clattering to the floor near Amelia's feet.
Of course.
Because this wasn't already enough of a YA cliché.
Amelia bent down to grab it—just as Jhonathan did.
I'm pretty sure their hands brushed.
She froze.
So did he.
Their fingers didn't pull back immediately.
Amelia looked up. He was already looking at her. Eyes soft. Not teasing.
Suddenly, the room felt too warm. Too small. Like everything else was paused.
But Amelia pulled her hand back and muttered, "You need to stop dropping things."
Jhonathan smiled, but it was quieter than usual. Like he wasn't sure if he'd imagined what just happened.
Ethan cleared his throat—bless that man—and gestured to the board. "So, we're opening with anonymous submissions?"
"Yeah," Amelia said. "And maybe some group breakout sessions after. Alexis came up with that part."
Ethan grinned. "Of course she did. She's the emotionally repressed mastermind of this operation."
"Thanks, I guess?"
As we kept brainstorming, a tiny buzz hit my phone.
I ignored it.
Then it buzzed again.
Amelia noticed and peeked over.
"Your mom," she whispered, reading the preview text on my lock screen. "Wants you to meet someone named... Aditya?"
I blinked. "What?"
I picked up the phone and opened the message.
"Beta, Aditya is in town next weekend. Just coffee. No pressure. He's free Saturday afternoon if that works for you."
I stared at the screen.
No emojis. No details. Just a calm drop of here's the future we designed for you, please be available.
My chest felt tight.
I could feel Ethan's eyes on me, though he hadn't said anything. Amelia shot me a look that said we are going to talk about this later.
Jhonathan, ever the observant dad friend, gently interrupted, "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," I lied smoothly. "Just family stuff."
But as I sat back in my chair, my fingers curled tighter around the edge of the desk.
Aditya.
Of course he'd show up now.
Right when I was finally starting to feel steady.
Right when Ethan's hoodie still smelled like cinnamon and soap in my closet.
"I think we should add a segment about identity loss," I said suddenly. "About how it feels when you don't know who you are outside of what people expect."
Ethan looked up, his voice softer. "That sounds... important."
"It is," I said. "Let's put it in."
And just like that, we got back to work.
But beneath the planning, beneath the dry-erase dust and the coffee and the index cards—
A storm was already building.
And his name was Aditya Sharma.
I left before the meeting officially ended. Not because we were done, but because I needed to not be in that room anymore. The air felt thick. My thoughts kept brushing against Ethan's voice like static. I told them I had a call. Technically not a lie.
I walked across campus with no real destination. Just… movement. Sometimes, walking feels like the only thing that keeps me from unravelling completely. If I stop, I think too much. If I think too much, I forget how to breathe.
My phone buzzed again. Same thread. Same calm tone.
"He'll be at Dean's Café. Saturday. 4 p.m."
No name, no pressure, but I already knew what that meant. Aditya. The doctor. The son. The plan.
I went.
Not because I wanted to. Not because I cared. But because some stupid part of me needed to see what my parents thought was the "answer." The alternative to my mess. The Alexis they imagined—polished, perfect, paired.
I was ten minutes late. On purpose. I stood outside the café like a creep for five whole minutes before walking in. Just watching through the glass like I was casing the joint.
He was already there. Of course he was. Grey button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to look effortless, reading something on his phone with the kind of posture that said, I meditate daily and I've never cried in a parking lot.
I stepped inside. The bell over the door betrayed me.
He looked up. Stood. Smiled.
Cool. Polite.
"Alexis?"
I nodded like a robot and sat down before I could psych myself out.
He didn't say I looked different. Thank God. He didn't compliment my hair or ask how tall I'd gotten or mention anything from childhood. I met him a few times, we weren't friends as per se, but we knew each other. Instead, he just offered me the menu and said, "I already ordered an iced tea. You still drink black coffee?"
I blinked. "How do you—"
"You posted it. On your story last month. Library grind. Emo filter. The caption was 'drowning in Freud and caffeine.'"
That gave me pause.
"You follow me?"
He smiled again. "My mom does."
Right. Of course she does. Probably screenshots everything. Probably has a WhatsApp group titled "Potential Bahu Watch" with my face in the icon.
I ordered. We made small talk. The boring kind. School. Classes. Weather. He asked about my major and didn't act surprised when I said psychology, which honestly shocked me more than it should have.
"No NEET prep?" he asked, sipping his chai.
"No," I said. "That ship burned. And sank. And exploded. Possibly haunted the ocean floor."
He laughed. A real one. Like he actually got it. That was annoying.
He talked about work. His rotations. Long hours. Burnout. The usual medical clockwork.
"I sketch in my free time," he added casually, like it wasn't the biggest plot twist of the year. "Not good, just… helps me focus. Or forget. Sometimes both."
I stared at him. "You draw?"
He shrugged. "Everyone needs something. I used to write, too. Mostly poetry. Then it started feeling more like exposure therapy than expression."
My stomach twisted. I didn't like how familiar that sounded. I didn't like how easy it was to picture this version of a life—hospital corridors, quiet art nights, parents proud enough to stop worrying.
"You seem…" I paused, searching for the word.
"Functional?" he offered.
"I was going to say suspiciously well-adjusted, but yeah, let's go with that."
He smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes this time.
"I'm good at seeming okay," he said. "It's not the same thing."
And I don't know what it was—maybe the way he said it, maybe the way he stirred his drink like he was trying to keep his hands busy—but something in me softened. Just a little.
I looked down at the table. "So, what is this, exactly? A reunion? A performance review? A date?"
He didn't laugh. Just tilted his head. "It's coffee. With someone I'm not entirely opposed to meeting again."
And I hate how that sentence sat with me. Like a maybe. Like a lifeline I didn't ask for but still noticed.
I finished my coffee. He paid without asking. I didn't thank him. Not because I wasn't grateful—just because I didn't know what I was thanking him for.
Outside, the sun was setting. The streetlights were flickering on, one by one, like nervous thoughts.
"I'll walk you back," he said.
"You don't have to."
"I know."
And he did. Quiet. No commentary. No reaching for my hand. Just… there. Like a suggestion.
We stopped at the gate of my dorm. I didn't invite him in. Didn't make a joke. Didn't flirt.
He didn't push. Just nodded once and said, "If you want to talk again, just text."
Then he turned and walked away.
Not dramatic. Not memorable. Just… gone.
I stood there for way too long, trying to breathe past whatever was stuck in my throat.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it was Ethan.
"Finished our segment slides. Added some visuals. Wanna look them over tonight?"
I stared at the message.
Then I stared at the street where Aditya had disappeared.
Then I closed my eyes.
And for a second, I didn't know which version of me I wanted to be.