The day moves without me. Class to class, seat to seat, like someone else is steering my body and I'm stuck in the passenger seat.
I've already secured the grades. The big future. The golden ticket.
So why does everything taste… hollow?
My pen drags without aiming—lines, not words.
Chairs scrape. Students shuffle. I don't.
The campus air smells recycled, like I've breathed this exact moment before.
I keep glancing—corners, windows, glass.
Reflections where shadows should be.
Nothing
Just me.
But my pulse flicks like it heard a voice my brain refuses to name.
The sandwich might as well be wet cardboard. My teeth do the work; the rest of me doesn't show up.
Someone calls my name. Maybe. Or maybe it's just the crowd buzzing.
I don't check.
Down the far stairwell. Echo folds over me like a blanket thrown too fast.
End cubicle. Free.
Slide in. Lock. Sit. Clothes still on.
Lid cold through fabric. Graffiti swims in front of me—numbers, dicks, declarations. A whole anthology of bored men.
My eyes move. My brain doesn't.
Then the crawl hits.
A thought sliding under the door before a footstep ever does.
What if someone comes in?
What if they rattle the lock?
What if they lean over the partition like those boys did when I was twelve—just for a laugh, just because they can?
What if they see?
Urinals out there. Open. Bright. Impossible.
Spine locks. Legs clamp. Breath thins.
Any minute someone could walk in. Slap the door. Bark a laugh. Catch me midstream.
Any minute someone could be watching.
Someone I don't want recognising me.
Someone I don't want remembering me.
Pressure blooms low. Vicious.
I need to piss so badly it hurts behind my eyes.
I stay on the lid. Counting heartbeats against cold plastic—one, two, three—like numbers can keep the world out.
Minutes or hours. No footsteps.
When I finally stand, I angle to the wall, hiding from nobody.
Empty bathroom.
Empty air. Doesn't matter.
Body acts like it's being observed.
Flush nothing. Wash hands that aren't dirty.
Stare until the glass melts into smudges.
Face blurs. Ugly. I wish it wasn't mine. Someone I'd step around in the hallway. Someone I'd pity. Someone I hate.
I leave the bathroom like I'm slipping out of someone else's life.
The corridor hums too bright, too open—every fluorescent tube buzzing like it's tuned to my nerves.
I keep my head down. Move. Just move.
By the time I reach the classroom door, my pulse has smoothed into something thin and metallic, but it's still there, clinging.
I slide into my seat before my body can argue.
Teacher's words wash over me, all static and shapes.
Page collects lines like bars on a cell wall—same stroke, same pressure. No message.
Fingers tap. Twitch. Little Morse‑code spasms screaming look at me.
No one does.
Teacher talks in code.
Data structures. Sorting algorithms.
Words melt into one long dial tone.
My brain peels out the window, back to the Revenant Crown anime. Finale tonight. Can't miss it.
Hero streaming colour from his fingertips, painting whole universes with a wrist flick.
Cities bloom.
Mine just sit here. Grey. Waiting.
The itching should be here by now.
Scratch, scratch—my private metronome.
I check.
Hand slides under the desk, brushes the spot on my thigh. Smooth. No scab. No raised heat.
Nothing.
Weird.
I press harder. Fingers find a tacky edge. A soft break.
Skin splits with a little sigh.
Warmth leaks out.
Just enough to know I've opened something that wasn't healed yet.
My breath doesn't move.
Chair legs screech when I stand.
The whole room flinches. I don't.
I'm already slipping out the door, the world tilting into corridor static.
Fluorescent lights gnaw at the ceiling like cockroaches chewing wallpaper.
Floor sighs. My shoes ghost over it.
Lockers show everyone else—the gossip, the hurry, the blur—
but not me.
A laugh rings out like a dropped coin.
My pulse chases after it before I can stop it.
I tap my chest. Hollow thud.
Try again. Same result.
Then—movement.
Way down the corridor.
Three shapes.
Blurred at first.
Tall, fluid shadows against the light.
My heart does the stupid thing—perks up.
Like a dog hearing a familiar car pull into the street.
A step closer and the silhouettes sharpen.
My fingers stop moving.
Even the cut on my thigh goes quiet.
I know those shapes.
Before I see a face.
Before I see the eyes.
My body knows before my brain catches up.