Java Junction is warm and bright when I push through the door. Carter’s already at our usual table, still in workout clothes, his hair damp from the quick shower he always takes between weight training and our breakfast meetings.
“You look terrible,” he says by way of greeting.
“Good morning to you too.”
“I’m serious, Maya. Did you sleep?”
“Some.” A lie. Maybe three hours total, broken up by the nightmare and the subsequent hours of staring at my ceiling wondering if this is just how life is now, fractured sleep and constant anxiety and the exhausting work of pretending everything is fine.
Carter studies me with those big brother x-ray eyes that see too much. “You had the dream again.”
It’s not a question.
“I’m handling it.”
“That’s not the same as being okay.”
“Close enough.”
He sighs, the particular sigh of someone who wants to push but knows it’ll just make me shut down further. “You’re seeing Dr. Williams this week, right?”
“Thursday. Same as always.” Weekly therapy is part of the deal. Carter pays for it now. Dad cut off all funding when Carter refused to break up with Lennox, when he chose his own happiness over our father’s control. I’m on scholarship here, working part-time at the library, living on a budget that makes ramen look gourmet.
But I have therapy. I have Carter. I have a second chance.
I’m supposed to be grateful.
Most days I am.
“How’s the freshman experience going?” Carter asks, switching topics with the skill of someone who’s learned when topush and when to let things go. “Making friends? Joining clubs? Doing normal college things?”
“Define normal.”
“Maya.”
“I’m fine, Carter. I go to class. I do my work. I’m passing everything. Isn’t that enough?”
“You know it’s not.” He leans forward, voice gentle but firm. “You can’t just exist here. You have to actually live. Make connections. Try things. The whole point of you coming to Thornhill was so you could have a fresh start, not so you could isolate yourself in a different location.”
He’s right, and I hate it.
“I’m trying,” I say quietly. “It’s just… hard. Everyone here already has their groups, their friends, their lives and I’m the weird freshman who nobody knows except as ‘Carter Lynch’s sister.’ I’m either ignored or interrogated, and I don’t know which is worse.”
“So find people who don’t care about hockey. Join a club that has nothing to do with athletics.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. What are you interested in?”
What am I interested in? I used to know. Used to have hobbies and passions and dreams. Used to think about the future in terms of possibilities instead of just survival.
“I don’t know anymore,” I admit. “I used to like art. Photography. But I haven’t picked up a camera in over a year.”
“So pick one up again. The university has a photography club. I can get you the info?—”
“Carter, I can’t just—” I stop, swallowing the panic rising in my throat. “What if I’m not good anymore? What if I lost that too?”
“Then you start over. You learn again. Maya, you can’t let what happened take everything from you.”
