My stomach growls loud enough to make the girl next to me in the cafeteria line shoot me a weird look. I haven't eaten since those chocolate chip waffles this morning, and my body's staging a full-on rebellion.
"Sorry," I mutter, grabbing a tray and shuffling forward like the rest of the freshmen cattle.
My first day at the University of Maine has been a blur of orientation bullshit. Assemblies where old dudes in suits drone on about "academic integrity" while secretly eyeing the freshman girls. Department heads listing rules I'll forget by tomorrow. Campus tours led by peppy upperclassmen who definitely drew the short straw for this gig.
The whole time, I've been trying to focus on college. New beginnings. Not on Mom's fingers brushing against mine at breakfast or the way she whispered in my ear. Definitely not on what I did with her panties this morning.
Fuck. I'm doing it again.
I grab a burger and pile fries onto my plate with more force than necessary, making the lunch lady raise an eyebrow.
"Hungry, hon?" she asks, and for a second, her motherly tone makes my chest tighten.
"Starving," I reply, avoiding eye contact as I snag an apple and chocolate milk like I'm still in fucking elementary school.
I scan the cafeteria, a sea of strange faces engaged in the awkward dance of first-day socializing. Groups already forming, laughter already shared. Meanwhile, I'm standing here like an idiot, tray in hand, wondering where to sit.
I take a deep breath, trying to dial back the anxiety. Just find a damn table, King. This isn't rocket science.
I spot an empty table near the window and make my way over, carefully balancing my overloaded tray. So what if I'm sitting alone? Rome wasn't built in a day, right? And this whole "reinventing myself" thing was always going to be a gradual process.
I set my tray down and drop into the chair, focusing on my breathing. In, out. In, out. The burger looks surprisingly decent for cafeteria food, and I'm just about to demolish it when a voice interrupts my hunger trance.
"Is it okay if I sit here?"
I glance up to find possibly the prettiest girl I've seen all day standing across from me. She's black, with short, neat hair framing a face that's caught somewhere between confident and terrified, a feeling I know all too well.
"Yeah, sure," I manage, suddenly aware of how messy my tray looks.
"Thanks." She slides into the seat opposite me, setting down a much more reasonable portion of salad and what looks like vegetable soup. "I'm Sabrina, by the way."
My mouth feels dry, and not just from hunger. "I'm Gabe," I reply, fighting the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.
Her face softens into a smile that makes something flutter in my chest. "Gabe... that's a nice name. Kind-sounding."
"Thanks," I say, feeling my cheeks warm. "Yours too. Sabrina. It's pretty."
We sit in awkward silence for a moment, both of us picking at our food without really eating. I rack my brain for something, anything, to say, but she beats me to it.
"So, um... do you like Breaking Bad?" she asks, her fingers nervously tapping against her water bottle.
The randomness of the question makes me laugh, which seems to ease the tension. "Yeah, actually. I watched it a few years ago. Walt's an asshole, but damn if it isn't compelling."
Sabrina's eyes suddenly light up like I just offered her a million bucks instead of a lukewarm take on a TV show. She leans forward, almost knocking over her water bottle.
"Oh my God, right? And Skylar? I fucking HATE Skylar with every fiber of my being," she says, voice rising enough that a couple people at the next table glance over. She doesn't seem to notice or care.
"The way she treats Walt is just…" She makes a strangling motion with her hands. "Like, I get it, your husband is lying to you, but he's literally making money to pay for his cancer treatment and secure your family's future!"
I blink, surprised by her intensity. The way her hands gesture wildly while she talks is kind of adorable.
"And that stupid birthday thing?" Sabrina continues, rolling her eyes dramatically. "With the bacon? I wanted to crawl out of my skin every time. If I ever act that cringe around a man, I hope someone puts me out of my misery."
I can't help but grin. "I mean, she had some valid points about Walt being a drug dealer."
"Oh please," Sabrina waves dismissively, stabbing at her salad with renewed vigor. "Walt was just doing what he had to do. Skylar was such a buzzkill. Team Walt all the way."
Something about her enthusiasm makes my chest feel lighter than it has all day. For a minute, I'm not thinking about Mom or my awkward morning or how out of place I feel. I'm just a guy talking to a pretty girl about a TV show.
"So you're pro-drug kingpin?" I ask, finally taking a bite of my burger.
"Yeah!" Sabrina grins and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. "See, that's exactly it. You watch Breaking Bad with this mindset of 'okay, I accept Walter is objectively the villain here, but damn if I'm not rooting for him anyway.'" She taps her finger on the table for emphasis. "It's just so satisfying watching him succeed, you know?"
I nod, feeling a weird connection forming between us. "Yeah, totally. There's something weirdly cathartic about watching a regular guy just... snap and take control of his life. Even if he's doing terrible shit."
"Exactly!" She points her fork at me. "But, like, if that was happening in real life? If your neighbor was cooking meth and blowing people up? That would be absolutely horrifying." She shudders dramatically. "TV lets us escape into these morally questionable fantasies without the actual consequences."
"That's so true," I say, surprised by how easily conversation flows with her. "It's the same reason people love shows about serial killers. In real life, we'd be terrified, but from our couches? Totally different story."
Sabrina's eyes light up like she's found a kindred spirit. She pushes her salad around thoughtfully before asking, "So, what other shows are you into?"
My mind goes blank for a second. What shows do I watch? Mom and I usually just have the news on during dinner, and after that... well, my evenings haven't exactly been spent binging Netflix.
"Doctor Who," I say nervously. It's the first show that pops into my head besides Breaking Bad, and I immediately regret saying it. She's way too hot for something as nerdy as…
Her eyes widen, and her whole face transforms into a cocky little smirk that makes my heart skip. "Oh yeah?" she challenges, one eyebrow arched perfectly. "Which Doctor is your favorite then?"
The question hits me like a pop quiz I didn't study for. She actually watches it? Holy shit.
"I've only watched since the reboot," I admit, fidgeting with my chocolate milk carton. "I'm kind of a sucker for Tennant, but over the years, I think I've been gravitating more toward Matt Smith."
Sabrina's mouth drops open in exaggerated offense. She places a hand over her heart like I've physically wounded her.
"David Tennant gang or die, dude," she declares with absolute conviction, pounding her fist lightly on the table. "He's fucking peak. No competition."
I can't help but laugh at her intensity, the tension in my shoulders finally releasing. "You're really passionate about this, huh?"
"Listen," she says, leaning forward conspiratorially, "I've written actual essays defending why Ten is objectively the best Doctor. The way he balanced being goofy and fun with those moments of ancient, terrifying rage? Chef's kiss." She mimes the gesture dramatically.
Suddenly, she stops mid-sentence and just... looks at me. Really looks at me, her dark eyes warming as she tilts her head slightly.
"You know what's weird?" she says, her voice softer now. "I don't usually ramble like this with people I just met. But there's something about you that makes it easy to talk to. Like, stupidly easy."
My heart does a weird little stutter-step in my chest. "Me?" I manage to say, then clear my throat. "I mean, thanks. That's... that's nice to hear."
Sabrina laughs a genuine sound that makes me want to hear it again. "The funny part is I've been doing like ninety percent of the talking." She twirls her fork between her fingers. "Usually, I'm a complete disaster around new people. All stuttery and awkward and overthinking every word."
"Could've fooled me," I admit.
"It's just…" She leans forward, dropping her voice. "When I saw you sitting here looking all deer-in-headlights, I thought, 'Hey, that guy looks as nervous as I feel.' And I figured maybe if we were both nervous together, it might cancel out, you know? Like some weird social anxiety algebra."
There's something so disarmingly honest about her that makes me brave enough to ask, "So... does this mean we're friends?"
The question hangs in the air for a second, and I immediately regret it. Too eager. Too desperate.
Sabrina's eyes light up like I just offered her the world's most precious gift. Her entire face transforms in a way that makes me think she's even more desperate than I am.
"God, yes, please," she blurts out, leaning forward so eagerly she almost knocks over her water. "I barely had any friends in high school. Like, embarrassingly few."
The words tumble out of her in a rush, and then she freezes, panic flashing across her face. She bites her lip and looks down at her half-eaten salad.
"I should probably warn you, though," she says, her voice smaller now. "I do have a shit-load of anxiety. Like, clinical-grade stuff." Her fingers drum nervously against the table. "Some of my online friends say I can be... a lot. Too intense, you know? But I'll try not to burden you with all my weird brain stuff."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. I can't help but smile, a genuine one, not the awkward grimace I've been giving people all day.
"Don't worry," I tell her, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. "I have anxiety, too. Social stuff, especially. It's like my brain's default setting is 'everyone hates you, and you're doing everything wrong.'"
Her shoulders visibly relax. "Same. Do you treat it? Like, medication-wise?"
I shake my head. "Not currently. I did in the past, but my Doctor took me off last year. Said I was doing better." I shrug, not mentioning how that "better" was mostly me getting better at hiding it from everyone, including my therapist.
Sabrina nods thoughtfully. "I'm still on the fence about trying meds. My therapist keeps bringing it up, but..." She trails off, twisting her napkin between her fingers. "I don't know. Part of me feels like I should be able to handle it on my own, you know?"
"Small steps," I offer. "That's what my old therapist always said. You don't have to figure everything out at once."
"You really do seem nice, Gabe."
"Thanks."