I step into the hall and stand there one second longer than I need to. Then right when I go to walk away, my phone vibrates.
Lydia:Not broken. Just loud
My throat gets tight. I type back.
Bash:Loud is okay. Raccoon or thumbs-up?
There’s a pause. Then a single emoji appears.
Lydia: *Raccoon emoji*
I grin, walk down to the lounge area, and make her coffee the way she likes before heading back to her dorm and setting everything outside her door with a sticky note I stole from the desk in the lounge that says, “Just here.”
When I turn to go, I hearthe soft pad of her feet on the other side, then the faintest tap against the door—once, quick, like our little wall code. I tap the frame back as quietly as I can, then leave her to the quiet she asked for, reminding every muscle in my body that caring is sometimes leaving space, and that’s healthy.
I send a check-in text when I’m downstairs.
Bash:Delivered. No response needed
A couple of minutes pass before she replies.
Lydia:Thank you for not making me perform being okay
Bash:Thank you for letting me know what you need
A beat.
Lydia:Poem-verse?
I lean against the hallway window and type the one that carried me after some rough nightswhere I needed to be okay with the roughness.
Bash:Isaiah 61:1–3
“…to bind up the brokenhearted…to give them a garland instead of ashes…a garment of praise instead of a faint spirit.”
No dots appear. That’s fine. On days like this, silence is not a bad thing. I pocket my phone and head down the stairs, feeling less useless, not because I fixed anything, but because I finally remembered what my job is—not to solve her, just to be there.
73
Lydia
Group is group. One of the guys relapsed and hearing him talk about it scared the shit out of me. Everyone just praised him for still coming in even though you can tell he’s visibly embarrassed.
I say I’m “doing okay” when it’s my turn to speak, which is true if you measure okay by the fact that I’m not currently wanting to die.
I’ve felt less on edge since talking to Bash…but the anxiety still lingers, like it didn’t take the hint it could go away now. My brain feels zappy still, and my body is restless like it’s trying to get away from itself…likeitdoesn’t even like how it’s acting.
By the time we’re done, it’s full dark. The air has that winter bite that makes you want to pull your jacket over your face as you’re walking. I pull my hoodie tighter and cut across the open grass, head down.
I don’t see him until I collide with him. Hands grab my arms to steady me, and my body feels the touch before my brain registers the face. When it does, the world goes still.
It’s the guy from the party, the one who tried to rape me.
“Watch it,” he says, annoyed, like I spilled something on his shoe.
My vision tunnels. His hands feel like they’re holding me downon that bed again.
I jerk out of his grip so hard my shoulder pops, and then I am running. I sprint across the quad to the nearest dorm because I need space between me and someone evil that I almost forgot existed, because I need a door that closes behind me, and other people inside, some false safety.
