The following week at Brookfield University unfolded as usual—classes, readings, Canvas notifications piling up. Rachel tried to stay focused, but her mind was a leaky boat, thoughts spilling out, replaced by echoes of the lounge conversation.
Psychology 101 should have held her attention. Professor Klein, with his wire-framed glasses, made even dry topics engaging. That morning, he spoke about human behavior and curiosity. "We're drawn to what we don't understand," he said, pacing before the projector. "Curiosity pushes us to explore. Desire outweighs fear."
Rachel's pen froze. The words felt personal, as if Klein could see the tug-of-war in her heart. She scribbled notes, but they were a mess—half psychology jargon, half questions she didn't want to admit.
Lila sat a few rows ahead, hair in effortless waves, whispering with Katie, a brunette with a bright laugh. Rachel couldn't stop watching. Lila seemed so free, untouched by the doubts that weighed others down. When Katie leaned close, Rachel felt a pang she couldn't name. She snapped her gaze to her notebook, cheeks warm.
By afternoon, Rachel was in the library, claiming she was working on a sociology paper. But the silence only amplified her thoughts. She glanced at students around her—some asleep on textbooks, others typing furiously. Everyone had their struggles, but hers felt secret, heavy. She wanted… something. The restlessness hadn't faded.
That evening, the dorm common room buzzed with laughter. Girls played cards, music hummed from a Bluetooth speaker, and the air smelled of popcorn. Lila was at the center, telling a story with animated hands. Rachel joined the group, but her laughter felt delayed, her mind stuck on Klein's words and the way Katie's hand had brushed Lila's arm in class.
Later, alone in her room, the dorm quiet except for the heater's hum, Rachel sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard.
Her heart raced. It was silly, she told herself. People searched things all the time. No one would know. She typed carefully: "how to understand yourself as a woman."
The results poured in—articles, blogs, forums. She clicked one, then another, her breath catching at phrases like explore your identity, embrace your truth, don't fear your own heart.
Her face burned. She closed the laptop briefly, pressing her palms to her cheeks. But the words lingered. Don't fear your own heart.
Rachel lay back, staring at the ceiling. The silence felt louder, every sound sharp—the radiator's tick, the bed's creak. Tentatively, she let her thoughts wander, tracing questions about who she was, who she could be. Her mind buzzed with anticipation and doubt. She imagined herself bolder, unafraid, like the girls in the lounge. But the thoughts felt clumsy, uncertain. After a moment, she sighed, pulling her blanket tighter.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered.
But it wasn't ridiculous. It was inevitable.
Sleep came fitfully. She tossed in her sheets, her heart restless with an ache she couldn't name. Somewhere between waking and dreaming, she promised herself she'd keep searching—slowly, carefully. Because no matter how uncertain, no matter how daunting, she couldn't ignore the hunger to know herself.
Rachel wasn't just curious anymore. She stood at the edge of a new version of herself—and she was terrified of how much she wanted to step forward.