The classroom was a mess — post-its everywhere, half-erased doodles on the board, and coffee cups stacked like tiny towers. Ethan was fiddling with the slideshow, trying to make the next mental health workshop look less like a desperate last-minute project and more like something that wouldn't put everyone to sleep.
I was scribbling in my notebook, jumping between brain diagrams and doodles of stressed-out students who looked suspiciously like me.
"You're still using Google for your info??" I teased, not bothering to hide the eye roll.
He glanced up, smirking. "Hey, don't diss the classics. Plus, Google is like the OG of our researching era. Warm, slow, low-key unprofessional."
I laughed. "Only you could turn a searching platform into a life philosophy."
He shook his head, eyes twinkling in the glow of his laptop. "Okay, your turn. What's your secret to not losing your mind when all this gets overwhelming?"
I paused. Honestly? It was the sketches. Drawing was like a tiny escape hatch from the chaos in my head. "Honestly, I think it's pretending my life's a graphic novel and I'm the dramatic protagonist."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "So… you're the tortured anti-hero?"
"Obviously." I grinned, flipping a page. "Brooding, sarcastic, saves the day but barely gets out alive."
He laughed, this deep, real laugh that hit my ribs like a soft punch.
"Fair," he said, "I'm more of the… 'Tries to be chill but secretly worries everyone's about to explode' type."
I nodded. "Mental health gang problems."
There was this quiet beat where we both just looked at each other, like the chaos of school and life momentarily paused.
Then I asked, almost quietly, "How do you always seem to know what to say when someone's spiralling?"
Ethan's smirk faltered a bit. "Half the time? I don't."
He took a breath, and his voice softened, like he was telling me a secret he barely told himself.
"My brother went through hell when we were younger. Depression, panic attacks — all the storms you don't want to admit exist in your family."
I stayed quiet, my pencil frozen mid-sketch.
"Parents didn't know what to do. Me? I just stood outside his room one night, hearing him yell at them to leave him alone. And I didn't knock. I thought staying out was helping."
He looked at me, eyes steady but heavy. "He's okay now. Better than okay. We're close. Family's in a better place."
His hands clenched the coffee cup like it was something to hold onto.
"That's why I study psych," he said, voice low but sure. "Not because it was some big calling, but because I wanted to fix the pieces I couldn't back then."
My heart felt tight. Somehow, his words weren't just about his brother — they were about everything we were both fighting to understand.
I closed my sketchbook, my hands trembling just a little. Then, without really thinking, I reached out and hugged him. Even though I hate physical touch. It makes my skin crawl. But still I hugged him, just a soft, quick hug, but it meant everything.
He didn't pull away. I didn't either.
And maybe — just maybe — I didn't feel so alone anymore.