My Professor's Secret

37|

thirty-seven

For the past few days, mornings had stopped meaning much of anything.

The sunrise still found its way through the window each day, but getting out of bed had become one of the hardest parts of it. Most mornings—or afternoons, depending on when I finally managed to wake up—I found myself staring at the ceiling for far longer than necessary, bargaining with my own body to move.

Today was no different.

By the time I finally forced myself out from beneath the comfort of my blankets, the digital clock beside my bed read a little after one o'clock.

One in the afternoon.

A few months ago, I would've been horrified.

The routine I'd built during my first week of college had quietly fallen apart while I wasn't paying attention. Early mornings. Study schedules. Meal plans. Runs before class. All the little things I'd once convinced myself were keeping me together had slowly slipped through my fingers.

How could they not have?

The world around me felt like it was devouring itself one piece at a time.

Thankfully, the showers were empty. At this hour, they usually were. No waiting. No conversations. No pretending I had the energy to interact with anyone.

The hot water should've helped.

Instead, by the time I finished showering, I felt even more exhausted than before. Washing my hair felt like a chore. Drying it felt worse. By the time I'd finally managed to dress myself and pull on my winter coat, it felt as though I'd already used up whatever energy I'd started the day with.

Wisconsin's winter air greeted me the second I stepped outside. The sharp wind cut through my coat and jolted me awake better than any cup of coffee ever could. I pulled the collar tighter around my neck and began crossing the quad.

Being alone sounded unbearable today, which was how I found myself heading toward Christian's dorm. Before knocking, I tug absentmindedly at the sleeve of my sweatshirt, painfully reminded of the fresh mountain tattoo hidden beneath the fabric.

His roommate answers the door in a hurry and invites me in before promptly scurrying out to avoid truancy, Christian says, after the door has latched shut and I've made myself comfortable on his bed.

Christian was still rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes when I stepped into the room.

The familiar scent of coffee, laundry detergent, and stale energy drinks greeted me immediately. His desk was buried beneath textbooks and assignments. Half-finished notes covered nearly every available surface. Under different circumstances, I probably would've commented on the mess.

Instead, I found myself lowering onto the edge of his bed without saying much of anything.

His eyes found mine briefly before he sank into the swivel chair beside his desk. There was a lot we probably should've talked about.

Neither of us had made much effort to speak since returning from Dreycott, maybe because every conversation seemed to lead back to our father, maybe because we were both exhausted. Or maybe because avoiding things had always come easier to the Castillo children than confronting them.