Mila Santos Is (Not) Dead

xiii: empty, null, devoid

MILA CUPPED HER HANDS around her thermos and raised it to her lips, recoiling at the bitter, abrasive coffee. It was mostly sugar and creamer, but it still tasted like coal.

She needed to drink this hell-beverage. She needed all the energy she could get.

She hadn't slept at all last night. She'd pulled an all-nighter cramming for her bio final after she'd left Jaime high and dry. In hindsight, it'd done more harm than good. She squinted at the thick packet on her desk. The words swirled. She could barely read the first question, let alone answer it. She'd been in here for almost ten minutes. All she'd managed to do was write her name.

She squinted at the word before where she'd written Mila Santos.

It wasn't "name." It was "date."

She'd written her name in the goddamn date line.

Mila took a deep breath and sat her thermos down. Or, she thought she'd set her thermos down. But her depth perception was off. She let go of it a couple inches before it hit the desk. It bounced backward, the lid popping off. Lukewarm coffee soaked her exam and her lap.

Mila leapt from her seat. Coffee dripped down her jeans. The coffee'd ruined her exam packet, but it wasn't like she'd written anything on it.

She looked around the room. Every pair of eyes was locked on her.

Something inside her snapped.

Tears burst from her eyes. She shoved her desk to the floor, sending her things flying in all directions. She screamed until her voice was hoarse. She whipped around, glaring at her classmates as they gaped at her. When her glare landed on Jaime in the back row, he jumped to his feet and ran toward her, his eyebrows knit together.

"Don't fucking come near me," she warned. "Don't. Stay the fuck away."

Jaime froze a couple desks from her. His expression twitched from Concerned Friend to Injured Puppy.

Mila swallowed back a sob. She didn't want to hurt her friends. She didn't want to hurt Jaime, who'd never done anything to her. But she felt like a cornered animal. Her only choice was to bite the hand that fed her.

Two small, soft hands gently grabbed her shoulders. She whipped around to face her professor, Dr. Rietveld—a woman about the same height as Mila. Pencils held her fiery red hair out of her eyes.

"Ms. Santos," she said. "Why don't you join me outside?"

Mila pulled away, recoiling from her unwanted touch. "Don't touch me," she snapped, angrily wiping at her eyes.

"Ms. Santos—"

Mila pulled her bag over her shoulder, bunching her coat up in her arms. She left everything else where it had been thrown. Her chest heaving with sobs, she ran from the room. The whole time Dr. Rietveld called her name.

***

MILA SLAMMED THE DOOR and slid to the floor, her back against it. As she sighed, her breath shoved the curls that had flung loose of her ponytail out of her eyes. She shimmied out of her coat and tossed her backpack on the rug. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

She didn't know why she was crying. She didn't feel sad anymore. Or stressed, or angry, or exhausted, or whatever caused her to freak out during her final. She felt empty, null, devoid. Like she didn't know how to properly feel. Like maybe she never had.

She needed to do something.

She couldn't live like this anymore.

She had to...