BRYCE
Twelve hours.
I've been in this room for twelve hours, staring at the water stain on my ceiling that looks like a wolf's head, ironically. My phone buzzes on the nightstand for the hundredth time but I don't look at it.
I called in sick to work this morning—for the first time ever, I sent my manager a one-line text (not feeling well, sorry) and turned off my phone for three hours. I missed my afternoon Biology lecture. I'm so done, I can't face campus and I can't face her.
The phone buzzes again. I roll onto my side, pull my pillow over my head, and try to block out the sound but it doesn't work.
Two weeks, it's been two weeks since the party, and I'm unraveling. I feel myself coming apart at the seams—sleep deprivation, constant anxiety, that sick feeling of being hunted that never quite goes away.
