Chapter 2

Emily was already at their usual table in the corner of the campus café, two steaming mugs of coffee waiting. She pushed one towards him as he slid into the seat. Her sharp eyes scanned his face, missing nothing.

“You look like hell, Leo,” she said, no sugar-coating. That was Emily. A grad student in psychology herself, she was too smart and too direct for pleasantries. It was why he liked her, and why he was terrified of her.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, wrapping his hands around the warm mug. The heat felt good. Real. “Just… didn’t sleep much.”

“Yeah, I got that from the text.” She took a sip of her coffee. “What happened in Weston’s class? You shot out of there like a bat out of hell. And that question…” She lowered her voice. “That was… bold.”

Leonard’s stomach clenched. He focused on a crack in the table. She knows. She knows how messed up I am. “It was stupid,” he muttered. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Emily countered. “It was relevant. But, Leo… are you okay? I mean, really okay? You’ve been… distant for weeks. More than usual.”

This was the moment. He could tell her. Emily was his friend. She was studying to be a therapist, for God’s sake. She would understand. The words bubbled up in his throat—I have nightmares, I can’t stop, I think I’m broken—but they hit a wall of pure, icy shame. The image of Paul’s calm, professional face flashed in his mind. He’s an expert. Maybe he’s the only one who can understand.

“I’m fine, Em,” he said, forcing a smile that felt like a crack in glass. “Just stressed about midterms. The question just popped into my head. It was awkward.”

Emily studied him for a long moment. He could feel her analytical mind working, dissecting his lie. She didn’t believe him. But she also knew when to back off. “Okay,” she said slowly. “If you say so. But you know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”

“I know,” he said, and the guilt was a bitter taste in his mouth. “Thanks.”

He drank his coffee, the silence between them heavy with things unsaid. He was pushing away the one person who genuinely cared, all for a dangerous, uncertain chance with a man he barely knew. This is a mistake. A huge mistake.

Back in his dorm room, he checked his email. His heart jumped into his throat when he saw the new message in his inbox.

From: Paul Weston <[e-mail]>

Subject: Following up today's class

Leonard,

Thank you for your thoughtful question in class today. It takes courage to speak up about such personal matters. As discussed, my office hours are today at 4:00 PM in Henderson Hall, room 304. I have some time set aside if you'd like to talk in a more private setting.

Best,

Professor Weston

The words were perfectly professional, but Leonard read them over and over, searching for hidden meaning. ‘Thoughtful question’? It was a desperate cry for help. ‘Courage’? It was weakness.

His finger hovered over the trackpad. Delete. It was the safe choice. The smart choice. He could pretend it never happened. Go back to being invisible Leonard, just trying to survive each day.

But then the memory of the nightmare returned—the suffocating fear, the crushing loneliness. Professor Weston’s voice echoed in his head: “It’s a symptom, not the cause.” No one had ever framed it that way. Everyone, including himself, had always treated him like he was the problem. What if he wasn’t the problem? What if he was just… injured?

A war raged inside him.

Need: “Go. He can help you. You can’t keep living like this.”

Fear: “It’s a trap. He’s your professor. This is wrong. What will people say?”

Hope: “Maybe this is the beginning of feeling better.”

Shame: “You’re so pathetic, seeking out a professor for this.”

He looked at the clock. 3:30 PM.

He stood up, paced the small room. Sat back down.

He opened his closet, staring at his clothes as if what he wore would decide his fate.

He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. His reflection stared back, pale and haunted. You need this, the eyes seemed to plead.

At 3:55 PM, he found himself standing outside Henderson Hall, a building he usually avoided. His legs felt like lead. Every instinct screamed at him to run.

This is your last chance. Turn around. Go back to your room. Delete the email tomorrow. Say you forgot.

But his feet carried him forward, up the stairs to the third floor. The hallway was quiet, empty. Room 304. The door was slightly ajar.

He raised his hand to knock, his knuckles trembling an inch from the wood. He could hear the soft rustle of papers inside.

What are you doing, Leonard? What are you about to walk into?

He took a deep, shaky breath. It was now or never. He pushed the door open.