“What do you need?” I try. “Quiet, coffee, car ride?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“How can I help?”
Her lips press together. “I’m fine.”
We make it half a block. I’m trying to decide if it’s better to try to help or just be there silently. The psychology part of my brain keeps pushing cue cards to the front. The friend part just wants to do anything that makes the tension behind her eyes let up.
“Okay,” I say finally, picking one thing and dropping the 50-questions. “I’m going to be your human compass. Tell me which way—dorm, library, or the long loop to nowhere?”
“Dorm.” She says it too fast, like the option is a relief to have.
“Dorm it is.” I turn us left.
We pass a couple of guys tossing a football. One of them shouts without warning, and I see Lydia flinch. Her hands go into her jacket pockets like she’s trying to play it off.
I can’t stand not knowing what she’s fighting right now. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
She cuts me a look that’s almost an apology, but mostly a warning. “I don’t wanna…talk.”
I nod. “Copy.” We walk for another couple of minutes before the next sentence makes its way out anyway. “Is there a way I can help without…talking?”
She stops. I stop. I’m ready for her to crack a smile and actually tell me how I can help. But she doesn’t.
“Bash,” she says, my name clipped. “I don’t want to be handled. Can you not do the…thing?”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you’re scanning me.” She gestures at me. “Like you’re trying to find the right button. There isn’t one. I just need to get to my room.”
It stings. Not because she’s wrong—I probably am scanning, but because I hate that I’m making it worse by trying to help. “Okay,” I say. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know,” she says, sharper. “I know that. I just—can we not do this on the sidewalk?”
“Yeah.” We start walking again. The quiet turns thick.
We reach her building. She walks in, and I follow her. She presses the elevator button like she’s mad at it.
“Stairs?” I offer.
“Elevator.” The doors open. We step in and face forward like we’re two strangers in a tiny moving box.
When the doors close, she exhales. “I’m irritated,” she admits. “Not at you. I just…need to be alone. It’s embarrassing.”
I turn my head. “What is?”
“All of it.” Her eyes stay on the numbers above the door. “Therapy days. This…edge. I can’t even tell you why. I just—my brain feels loud. People see me like this and think something’s wrong with me…and obviously there is. It’s like I’m broken and it’s all leaking out.”
The elevator dings open, and we step into the quiet hallway.
I keep my voice low. “I don’t think you’re broken.”
She shrugs me off. “Can we not do a pep talk? Please?”
“I’m not pep-talking. I’m just telling you the truth.” We reach her door, and she fishes for the key, but drops it. “Here, let me—”
“I’ve got it.” She snatches it up, jabs it into the lock, and pushes inside. The room is empty, thank goodness. She just stands in the doorway like she’s not sure if she’s inviting me in or barricading the entrance.
